“I will always be the one who made you into poetry.”

Only you can make love to my soul.

As I hold on to pain, I think of you. And with hope, I smile,  maybe one day this heaviness will leave you too.

The earth shakes calling for you too.

I found wholeness between my skin and his.

Some words are heavy. I’m still learning how to rise after your goodbye.

One word could destroy me and all I need to do is hear your name.

You touch me and my bones tremble.

You taught me that it’s okay to fall. As long as, the right hands catch you.

In his arms, I was a long-lost child, Who finally made it home.

Pain stole my heart and made it home. And I can’t do anything but welcome it.

The darkness feels like home. And the truth is, I’m tired.  I can’t pretend like there’s light anymore.

All this world and I could not find a piece in yours.

We are strangers again. And what a beautiful thing that is.

I don’t know much about love. But he really makes my heart smile.

Your name suffocates me.

I am now empty. And you still look at me as if I have more left to give.

The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.

To be loved by a poet is to find love hidden in between the lines of many things.

IMAGINATION, n. A warehouse of facts, with poet and liar in joint ownership.

Write clean and dirty.

Of course poets have morals and manners of their own, and custom is no argument with them.

We Negro writers, just by being black, have been on the blacklist all our lives. Censorship for us begins at the color line.

I do not write. My lungs just breathe in words.

Hang yourself, poet, in your own words. Otherwise, you are dead.