“... my early writing was a silent fury - at what or whom, I had no idea - but I shut it in until it burned my bones and now, I've let it out...”

“...I lost my illusions in a black rain of bitterness - now what do you see in my eyes? How can you still love me? How can I be tender? ...”

“...my writing is a wild mustang - more thunderous than a lightning storm -and all my skill which I call art, is devoted to simply staying on...”

“...I got to love solitude - to see the Moon rise and set - I had time to watch it trace the window square across the wall in silent grace...”

“...you merely look at me and I want to confess, but don't - I've buried my heart under the floor boards, but you always dig it up...”

“...you fantasize about me reading my poems to you - it doesn't work that way - I write down everything later - living is not an after-thought...”

“...you can be angry and silent, but it's no use - there's no distance in the spirit - besides, my words touch you more softly than my hands...”