I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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.
My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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.
As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
Love your self's self where it lives.
I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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.
I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
The sanest thing in this world is love.
...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.
I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving; then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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