It must be awkward to write poems for strangers in New York’s Central Park.
To sit there with an old typewriter, clack away at the keys offering your talent to people who may ridicule you, or worse, take your talent for granted, possibly balking at your vulnerability..your effort.
How often do we insist on strengthening our passions, while serving people to simply sharpen our skills for little or no material reward?
To me, this type of risk, this kind of sacrifice, sounds like love, self love.
