When you play the field selfishly everything works against you: one can’t insist on love or demand affection. you’re finally left with whatever you have been willing to give which often is: nothing.

You have my soul and I have your money

some moments are nice, some are nicer, some are even worth writing about.

Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.

the beautiful are found in the edge of a room crumpled into spiders and needles and silence and we can never understand why they left,they were so beautiful. they dont make it, the beautiful die young and leave the ugly to their ugly lives.

Some lose all mind and become soul,insane. some lose all soul and become mind, intellectual. some lose both and become accepted

But my whole life has been a matter of fighting for one simple hour to do what I want to do. There was always something getting in the way of my getting to myself.