I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.

They deem me mad because I will not sell my days for gold; and I deem them mad because they think my days have a price.

Poetry, my dear friends, is a sacred incarnation of a smile. Poetry is a sigh that dries the tears. Poetry is a spirit who dwells in the soul, whose nourishment is the heart, whose wine is affection. Poetry that comes not in this form is a false messiah.

Hell is not in torture; Hell is in an empty heart.

You often say, "I would give, but only to the deserving." The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture. They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.

They consider me to have sharp and penetrating vision because I see them through the mesh of a sieve.

Your body is the harp of the soul.