Real poets A bowl of fog around my head - can't focus - every sentence comes out like a dead end. A layer of weakness around my corpse - I can't move - only stumble in the direction I want. A feeling of unsafe ground - watching the soil spilled - can't live with this, just can't. A poem of words - unlike this - concentrated grammar in shape - how can it breathe? All I say's that I've some issues towards men of big words - women of great deeds! The simple hero of unselected words must be cherished. We can't possibly know when the real poets reincarnate...