“My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.”

I find myself absolutely fulfilled when I have written a poem.

It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.

I’m sarcastic, skeptical, and sometimes callous because I’m still afraid, deep down, of letting myself be hurt.

I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life.

I knew you’d decide to be all right again.

Wear your heart on your skin in this life.

I have stitched life into me like a rare organ.

After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.

Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.

As a poet, one lives a bit on air. I always like someone who can teach me something practical.

Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.

I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.

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.

Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.

Solitude is a necessary protest to the incursions and the false alarms of society’s hysteria, a period of cure and recovery.

We burned with love for ourselves, all of us, starters of the fire we suffered- our love was the affliction for which only our love was the cure.

But love’s a malady without a cure.

Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.

It’s a poor doctor who can’t cure one disease without giving you another.

Real pain can alone cure us of imaginary ills.

Sameness is the mother of disgust, variety the cure.

A husband is a plaster that cures all the ills of girlhood.