The only way around is through.
Talking is a hydrant in the yard and writing is a faucet upstairs in the house. Opening the first takes the pressure off the second.
Poetry is what is lost in translation. It is also what is lost in interpretation.
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
Affection is an overpowering craving to be compellingly sought.
Being the boss anywhere is lonely. Being a female boss in a world of mostly men is especially so.