“Too much of what I write takes me back to you.”

Something in me is constantly at unrest.

You are like a wrecked ship in the depths of the ocean, collapsed and eroded but still, full of pearl oysters.

If not love, then we have to survive it.

I am not what I write but I want to be.

It’s not sad/ that you choose/ to keep yourself in/ its a pity/ that even when you could/ you never decided/ to walk out.

You out of all, have a hand to hold.

Too many of us have grown up just too early.

I don’t want everything to be a destination, where I have to grind and reach, O! how I long for some good to come in my way and let me pick it up.

All this sadness longs to be touched.

I want to know the 2 am you because my love we all are different when we are at war under the sun.

A love that stays will always remain secondary to the one that left, but isn’t it a shame to worship that which left in place off that which stayed.

But the act of holding on speaks to me so much more about a human heart than the courage of letting go ever could.

These poets and their metaphors lied to me/ you never felt like a mountain I wished to climb/ or a stream I would let myself float in/ or a scent I was dying to bottle in/ these poets lie when they talk of love.

Growing flowers on your tongue/ won’t make those lies/ any sweet/ saying that you still/ love me/ won’t make this/ broken trust/ change how it feels.

For once I wanna look back and not sigh.

All my life has been a struggle to know, what to hold on and what to let go, but still, i end up sitting in the corner of the room with a flickering candle, whimpering, naked, shuddering, lost.

A Winchester rifle should have a place of honor in every black home.

Hollywood is a place where a man can get stabbed in the back while climbing a ladder.

If people really liked to work, we’d still be plowing the land with sticks and transporting goods on our backs.

Perfect love will never want the preeminence in everything, it will never want to take the place of another, it will always be willing to take the back seat.

I came home every Friday afternoon, riding the six miles on the back of a big mule. I spent Saturday and Sunday washing and ironing and cooking for the children and went back to my country school on Sunday afternoon.

What you need is someone to take hold of you–gently, with love, and hand your life back to you, like something gold you let go of–and I can! I’m determined to do it–and nothing’s more determined than a cat on a tin roof–is there?

People won’t want powers being handed back from bureaucrats in Brussels to be given to bureaucrats in Britain.

He knew them only ‘in Braille’ – the curtains were never drawn back in the rooms in Oxford where he met those boys. It was the most sordid life you can imagine. And he was bleating about love and dragging the fair name of Mr. Plato into the trial – after a life like that?