I was young for my age. Not as naïve as they expected. I don't know why I seem to bring that out in people.

Sorrow is so easy to express and yet so hard to tell.

If I'm censoring for anyone, it's for my parents. They are very old-fashioned and moral people. They still don't understand me that well.

Acid, booze, and ass, needles, guns, and grass, lots of laughs.

At the point where I'm trying to force something and it's not happening, and I'm getting frustrated with, say, writing a poem, I can go and pick up the brushes and start painting. At the point where the painting seems to not be going anywhere, I go and pick up the guitar.

The Hollywood sirens are shrieking, while down some search lit alley runs some lost belief.

I never loved a man as far as I could pitch my shoe.