“A Betrayal I cannot undo what I have done; I can’t un-sing a song that’s sung. And the saddest thing about my regret- I can’t forgive me, and you can’t forget.”

It was pure bliss and absolute torture at the same time. I was in daze, as if my brain had suddenly packed up and gone on vacation. I could barely string words together in a sentence.

I think that bothers me more than anything. That he could look in my eyes and tell me something that is completely contrary to the truth.

Don’t let them tell you that your pain should be confined to the past, that it bears no relevance to the present.

Be patient. Your voice will find its way into the world, not in one loud instance but a steady trickle that turns into a deluge.

Understand that we must lose our way, over and over, before we can find the best version of ourselves.

Here’s the story of my life. Hoping they would care about me or wishing they wouldn’t care so much.

I don’t know if what we had was love, but if it wasn’t, I hope never to fall in love. Because of you, I know I am too fragile to bear it.

I look for you, the way I was taught to look both ways when crossing the road. Uptight and wary, bracing myself for something I know could break me.

It is the mark of a great poet to write words that feel as though they have stood witness to your most intimate memory of love.

I had no way of knowing, when I was sitting alone in that tiny bedroom, that in just a few short months, I would meet the love of my life: a man who lived across the ocean from me, in a little house by the sea.

My father was a house,my mother was a home.

Doesn’t your soul remain the age you were when you first fell in love?

Some Time Out The time may not be prime for us, though you are a special person. We may be just two different clocks, that do not tock, in unison.

Sometimes I am caught between poetry and prose, like two lovers I can’t decide between. Prose says to me, let’s build something long and lasting. Poetry takes me by the hand, and whispers, come with me, let’s get lost for awhile.

Every day I measure the weight of my past against the present and feel the drag of what could have been.

It is only the year that is ending. So why does it feel like the world is?

Anyone who hasn’t experienced the ecstasy of betrayal knows nothing about ecstasy at all.

Betrayal is beautiful.

We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.

We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.

The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir Will celebrate with green the Mother, And every song-bird shout awhile for her; But we are gifted, even in November Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense Of Her nakedly worn magnificence We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.

The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir Will celebrate with green the Mother, And every song-bird shout awhile for her; But we are gifted, even in November Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense Of Her nakedly worn magnificence We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.

Man has his being in truth–if he sacrifices truth he sacrifices himself. Whoever betrays truth betrays himself. It is not a question of lying–but of acting against one’s conviction.

A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death – the huge solace of thinking that for our betrayals, greed, cowardice, murders we are not going to be judged.