…it’s much less stressful to tie a string around that spotlight and tug a little to make sure you never quite leave its warmth.
It’s all gone to hell.
…sharp teeth of an angel.
Poetry is only a moment.
Love with a whole heart, or not at all — not even a little.
I write what I feel, and I let it go.
There is mad, mad joy to be found.
This can’t bode well, can it?
Living in my head, it’s not such a bad thing.
A heart monitor with no ups or downs reflects a dead heart.