In a far away land under the coconut palms, there was a quiet little house by the sea. It had old boards that creaked when the wind whistled through them. It had small rooms that filled with sunshine on sunny days and moonlight on cloudless nights. Sometimes the roof leaked a little rain. And it had a young poet.

The poet was not happy. She spent her days biting her lips and biting her nails. She spent her nights staring at the cracks in the ceiling, watching the lizards scuttle. She never danced in the warm rain. The poet was not happy at all.

She couldn't write poems, you see.