I love to read poetry, and I also love to write it. Poetry, there you are left alone with the figments of your imagination. No stressful work, no teachers, no bullies, no hurt and no pain. A special place to come to yourself and express yourself. It’s wicked.
Hope is the thing with feathers.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
– Emily Dickinson –