Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.
We cling to words like drowning men to straws. But still we drown, we drown.
Even a painful longing is some form of presence.
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?
I don’t write poetry when I wish, I write when I can’t, when my larynx is flooded and my throat is shut.
Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that.