“Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.”

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.

When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn’t want it, you cannot take it back. It’s gone forever.

I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.

Only I wasn’t steering anything, not even myself.

Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.

Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.

Everything in life is writable.

I woke to the sound of rain.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.