i have thought that there will be no more poetry that would come out of me. that i have wrung out every piece of loneliness, every morsel of pain, every bit of hope. i thought, i couldn't possibly write anything else, think of anything new, give anything better. but then life cannot really be contained in a few lines, a few stanzas, a few pieces. there aren't enough poems to encompass the depth of every moment that passes, the enormity of life, the vastness of the universe, the magnificence of nature.
