Poems aren't postcards to send home.

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.

Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind

Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.

Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.