A Woman Who Writes Feels Too Much.

All I Am Is The Trick Of Words Writing Themselves.

They [daisies] Are My Favorite Flower. There Is Something Innocent And Vulnerable About Them As If They Thanked You For Admiring Them.

The Heart, This Child Of Myself That Resides In The Flesh, This Ultimate Signature Of The Me, The Start Of My Blindness And Sleep, Builds A Death Crèche.

You Lay, A Small Knuckle On My White Bed; Lay, That Fist Like A Snail, Small And Strong At My Breast. Your Lips Are Animals; You Are Fed With Love. At First, Hunger Is Not Wrong.

Images Are Probably The Most Important Part Of The Poem. First Of All You Want To Tell A Story, But Images Are What Are Going To Shore It Up And Get To The Heart Of The Matter.