O youcan’t tell someone just how lonely he is

And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.

...but beautiful mosaics are made of broken pieces.

it does seemthe more we drinkthe better the wordsgo.

Whatever is produced in haste goes hastily to waste.

Now Leroux, what think youOf this twist to the story?

There are no lungs like the ones that breathe poetry.

It is when things are at worst you will get the best.

Undeniable obsession of words that quickens my spirit.

Create a massive drawing of what God has promised you.

I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.

It’s the end of man and I can do whatever I want.

There is a blue bird in my heart that wants to get out.

free from ivory-towerthe pencil twirlsacross the footpath

Parting is all we know of Heaven,and all we need of Hell.