I would blossom if I were a rose.
To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak.
Life isn't all beer and skittles; few of us have touched a skittle in years.
That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.
And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea.
You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that.