Had any poet adequately described the wretched ugliness of a loved one turned inside out with grief?

I've heard it said that children born to stressful times never shake the air of woe . . . .

I'd pretty much given up hope of being published, so I just wrote the book I wanted to read.

I want to be independent. To meet interesting people. ... I just mean new people with clever things to say. Things I've never heard before. I want to be free. Open to whatever adventure comes along and sweeps me off my feet.

I simply love writing good stories, that's my passion.

Thinking of nothing. Trying to think of nothing. Thinking of everything.

Life could be cruel enough these days without the truth making it worse.