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.
... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.
I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.