If you can't write the next line, well, you're dead. The past doesn't matter.

It was like a church in there as only the truly lost sit in bars on Tuesday mornings at 8:00 a.m.

Angels, we have grown apart.

we had such tremendous fun and much agony together for some years

I am ashamed to be a member of the human race but I don't want to add any more to that shame, I want to scrape a little of it off.

The blankets had fallen off and I stared down at her white back, the shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow into wings, poke through that skin. Little blades. She was helpless.

Bad poetry is caused by people who sit down and think, Now I am going to write a Poem.