“The poetry is myself.”

I don’t like the idea of the black race being diluted out of existence. I like the idea of all of us being here.

Each body has its art.

With melted opals for my milk, Pearl-leaf for my cracker.

A writer should get as much education as possible, but just going to school is not enough; if it were, all owners of doctorates would be inspired writers.

I am a writer perhaps because I am not a talker.

Do not be afraid of no, Who has so far, so very far to go.

Goodness begins simply with the fact of life itself.

Already I am no longer looked at with lechery or love.

One reason cats are happier than people is that they have no newspapers.

Poetry is life distilled.

Reading is important – read between the lines. Don’t swallow everything.

Art hurts. Art urges voyages – and it is easier to stay at home.

I think it must be lonely to be God. Nobody loves a master. No.

I am a writer perhaps because I am not a talker. It has always been hard for me to say exactly what I mean in speech But if I have written a clumsiness, I may erase it.

I think there are things for all of us to do as long as we’re here and we’re healthy.

I felt that I had to write. Even if I had never been published, I knew that I would go on writing, enjoying it and experiencing the challenge.

Write your lustful words with the invisible ink of your tongue upon every part of my body, until my mouth begins to moan every single letter in poetry.

Speak to me again, so I’m writing another poem i’ll never send.

She plucked a feather from her magnificent wings and dipped it in ink. She wrote poems bled from her scars guided straight from the depths of her heart.

I’ve scattered poems all across this world so that if you ever decide to wonder about an old friend you could see that despite all my anger really- I just miss you.

All the poetry in the world could not put us together again.

Poetry saved my torn heart.

I wonder if she understands how different she is from any other friends I’ve had, If she recognizes how many of my poems are about the way our souls entwine, If she’ll ever know how much I love her.

My soul bleeds poetry, dipped in blue scented lies.