Being Sixteen In The Pants I Died

When I'm Writing, I Know I'm Doing The Thing I Was Born To Do.

Poor Thing. To Die And Never See Brooklyn.

There Is Rust In My Mouth,the Stain Of An Old Kiss.

She Is So Naked And Singular. She Is The Sum Of Yourself And Your Dream. Climb Her Like A Monument, Step After Step. She Is Solid.

Watch Out For Love (unless It Is True, And Every Part Of You Says Yes Including The Toes), It Will Wrap You Up Like A Mummy, And Your Scream Won't Be Heard And None Of Your Running Will Run.