Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.

As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.

Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.

They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.

Do you like me?” No answer. Silence bounced, fell off his tongue and sat between us and clogged my throat. It slaughtered my trust. It tore cigarettes out of my mouth. We exchanged blind words, and I did not cry, I did not beg, but blackness filled my ears, blackness lunged in my heart, and something that had been good, a sort of kindly oxygen, turned into a gas oven.

I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!

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.