A woman who writes feels too much.
Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.