I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
The joy that isn't shared dies young.
We are all writing God's poem.
One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
The sanest thing in this world is love.
I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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