All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
It would be pleasant to be drunk.
The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
Poems aren't postcards to send home.