We flew back home like swallows. 'Is it happiness that makes us so light?' Agathe asked.
I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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.
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.
I would like a simple life yet all night I am laying poems away in a long box.
It’s not the struggles that define you; it’s how you overcome them.
The living is a passing traveler; The dead, a man come home.
Just as physical energy comes from diet, exercise and rest, emotional energy comes from the ways you take care of yourself emotionally -- living in a way that makes you feel inspired, hopeful, self-confident, playful, loving and in touch with what you care about most.
Everyone has to contribute, or they become laborers.