I was leafing through a journal from 2005 and saw this entry:

I am a poet at heart. I long to make my pages sing of beauty, divinity, and human achings. I wish for my words to be breathed upon and made a living document – a Pinnochio of poetry.

The following day I wrote this:

I miss poetry. Not just any poetry, but the poetry whose words and imagery drip with mind-tingling power. I haven’t read anything lately that seizes my imagination and combs through my senses.

So there you have it. Just a little taste of the old melancholy. Just in case you read my tweets and status updates and wonder why I’d employ such an inaccurate nickname. That was just a smidge. Don’t get used to it.

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