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.
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.
As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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.
My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
The sanest thing in this world is love.
My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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.
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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