Tell me what’s the difference between hope and waiting because my heart doesn’t know It constantly cuts itself on the glass of waiting It constantly gets lost in the fog of hope

This morning I suddenly catch myself: I'm not there, I'm so lost in thought, I don't know what's going on around me. Can you think yourself to death?

Even a painful longing is some form of presence.

My poems are more my silence than my speech. Just as music is a kind of quiet. Sounds are needed only to unveil the various layers of silence.

I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.

Poetry is a presentiment of the truth.

We cling to words like drowning men to straws. But still we drown, we drown.

I’m moved by everything broken and crippled. Since that’s how we really are.

I returned to confirm there can be no return.

I have no talent. I write poems for myself, to think things through, that’s all.

There are things better left untouched by words.

This is going to sound crazy, but... from the moment I first set eyes on you I haven't been able to stop thinking about you.

I want to say that at various points in your marriage, may it last forever, you will look at this person and feel only rage.

we must remember that the end of personal mastery is service to others.

Crying adds something: crying is you, plus tears.

I always thought I was funny, but I was very sensitive, and very provocative just to get a rise out of people.

It's nice to have someone write a couture character for you.

I'm a little bit of a makeout king. I don't discriminate too much.

Even the young are killing each other.

All we are is dust in the wind, dude.

Why did not somebody teach me the constellations, and make me at home in the starry heavens, which are always overhead, and which I don't half know to this day?