Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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.
Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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’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.
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.
I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
Mood can be as important as sense.
Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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.
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.
The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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 not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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.
One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
We are all writing God's poem.
My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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