I don't need more pain in my life. Why did I invite it in? Do I have to feel pain to believe I feel anything at all?

And at some point I would like to talk my publisher into doing an anthology of my poetry alongside some teen readers poetry. It would be fun, and really wonderful to get their stuff out there.

Why doesn't love come with an owner's manual?

I want the part of you that you refuse to give.

Certain of misfire, my heart threatens to stop.

Real love shouldn't be disposable.

Without poetry, stories would be told in sepia.