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.
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.
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.
Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
The sanest thing in this world is love.
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.
As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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.
Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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.
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.
I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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