Nobody wanted your dance, Nobody wanted your strange glitter, your floundering Drowning life and your effort to save yourself, Treading water, dancing the dark turmoil, Looking for something to give.

What’s writing really about? It’s about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life.

The sea cries with its meaningless voice, Treating alike its dead and its living

I shall also take you forth and carve our names together in a yew tree, haloed with stars.

Prose, narratives, etcetera, can carry healing. Poetry does it more intensely.

The real mystery is this strange need. Why can't we just hide it and shut up? Why do we have to blab? Why do human beings need to confess?

You are who you choose to be.

where are the gods the gods hate us the gods have run away the gods have hidden in holes the gods are dead of the plague they rot and stink too there never were any gods there’s only death

The dreamer in her Had fallen in love with me and she did not know it. That moment the dreamer in me Fell in love with her and I knew it

The deeps are cold: In that darkness camaraderie does not hold: Nothing touches but, clutching, devours.

The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.

This woman is a virus and she’s eating me alive.

Together we can remind them there are no excuses to sit back and watch the cycle of extreme poverty continue.

Middle age is when you have a choice of two temptations and choose the one that will get you home earlier.

I don't care about age very much. I think back to the old people I knew when I was growing up, and they always seemed larger than life.

Every man who rises above the common level has received two educations: the first from his teachers; the second, more personal and important, from himself.

Poor me, poor me, pour me another.

Only by God?s grace have I made it to see today and only by God?s grace will I ever see tomorrow.

Faith, joy, optimism. But not the folly of closing your eyes to reality.

In a library we are surrounded by many hundreds of dear friends, but they are imprisoned by an enchanter in these paper and leathern boxes.

Although the last, not least.