Is it perhaps the one necessity of love, that it be needed? And the one great human tragedy that it so rarely is?
Do not deprive me of my age. I have earned it.
The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.
Poems like to have a destination for their flight. They are homing pigeons.
Self-respect is nothing to hide behind. When you need it most it isn't there.
Read between the lines.Then meet me in the silence if you can.