The poem always was for me the form of expression of feelings. In two-three stanzas finds room much – the overflowing emotions asking on will of thought, impetuous passion. Not having possibility to give vent to this all on a paper, for a long time would descend suma from an overabundance of feelings. And so – anything, it was possible to consult. Improbably it would be desirable, not spending, certainly, not deserved analogies to repeat thereupon Sergey Yesenin's words: «as to other autobiographical data, - they in my verses».
What is the life? As it is difficult to find the answer. For me a life became In what light is not present. Heathland of pleasures, desires, Only one dreams. Grief molchanja and exiles You will not cure. The sense is not present and I do not search In a rain roar And eyes at light shchurja In a shade I disappear. For what all this nonsense, Darkness of soul? Life – not a rest cradle. For happiness do not search!