In November, the trees are standing all sticks and bones. Without their leaves, how lovely they are, spreading their arms like dancers. They know it is time to be still.

But those with an evil heart seem to have a talent for destroying anything beautiful which is about to bloom.

That's got to be at least one of the benefits of heaven - never having to act normal again.

When the wicked want to bring down the innocent, they aim for a loving heart.

But I know now that you can't expect anything from anybody. If somebody loves you, it's because he wants to. And it's never because it's what he's supposed to do." —Pete Cassidy

A lot of people think they can write poetry, and many do, because they can figure out how to line up the words or make certain sounds rhyme or just imitate the other poets they've read. But this boy, he's the real poet, because when he tries to put on paper what he's seen with his heart, he will believe deep down that there are no good words for it, no words can do it, and at that moment he will have begun to write poetry.

It is when we are most lost that we sometimes find our truest friends.