Writing from the reservoir of our own minds and hearts. May send a friendly shot at equals but rarely. It's our own food we make.

Give mea moon-blanket nightto keep me warma long-gone smileto comfort mea pair of rain-blue eyesto haunt mea simple soul...to love me.

I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above; those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.

Like a sculptor, if necessary,carve a friend out of stone.Realize that your inner sight is blindand try to see a treasure in everyone.

I'm going to do something bigger and better,bigger and betterand bolder, but first,I'm going to do somethingsmaller and worse.

Though we tremble before uncertain futuresmay we meet illness, death and adversity with strengthmay we dance in the face of our fears.

I wrote a fair amount of poetry in college. It was really, really bad. I mean, bad. And that’s how I found out—by doing it.

Las lágrimas que no se lloranesperan en pequeños lagos?O serán ríos invisiblesque corren hacia la tristeza?

I live not in myself, but I becomePortion of that around me: and to meHigh mountains are a feeling, but the humof human cities torture.

The experienced poets don't fret over the work of others because the know how this thing goes. They know exactly what is poetry is.

So come to the pond, or the river of your imagination, or the harbor of your longing,and put your lips to the world.And live your life.

i do not know what it is about you that closesand opens;only something in me understandsthe voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses

For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.

I said, I love youwhen I meant something muchmore specific, I should have said,Please don't leave me,I'm afraid to sleep alone.

Liebe Tochter, zum Geburtstag kriegst duHöchstens E-Mail mit Musik.An die harte Matratze schmiegst dudeine Wange. Kunst ist Krieg.