I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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.
Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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 hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
The joy that isn't shared dies young.
The sanest thing in this world is 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.
One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
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.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
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.
Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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