To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
If I could blame it on all the mothers and fathers of the world, they of the lessons, the pellets of power, they of the love surrounding you like batter ... Blame it on God perhaps? He of the first opening that pushed us all into our first mistakes? No, I'll blame it on Man For Man is God and man is eating the earth up like a candy bar and not one of them can be left alone with the ocean for it is known he will gulp it all down. The stars (possibly) are safe. At least for the moment. The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
A woman who writes feels too much.
Poetry to me is prayer.
Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
Somebody who should have been born is gone.
I am younger each year at the first snow.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
It would be pleasant to be drunk.
The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
I will be steel! I will build a steel bridge over my need! I will build a bomb shelter over my heart! But my future is a secret. It is as shy as a mole.
Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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