I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.
The artist's life nourishes itself on the particular, the concrete.
The one man in the room who was as big as his poems, huge, with hulk and dynamic chunks of words.
You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.
If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.
Read widely of others' experiences, even if it'd be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance.
I may never be happy, but tonight I am content.
There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
I began to see why woman-haters could make such fools of women. Woman-haters were like gods: invulnerable and chock full of power. They descended, and then they disappeared. You could never catch one.
Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?
I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.
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