The poet's soul absorbs the world's beauty like a sponge.
Seeing, eating, living the tragic, the profound and the painful
until filled and dripping the excesses of being plunged
into the bucket of excrement that is man's insane and full
existence. And when the poet's soul has absorbed enough
beauty and sadness and pain and joy and love and scorn,
it is squeezed gently onto an empty page for a draft, still rough,
then nourished, edited and changed until, finally, a poem is born.