But Be Careful; Sand Is Already Broken

I Think Depression Creates In Me An Urgent Need To Write, But I Also Believe That Daily Stress, And Even The Positive Stress Of Intense Happiness, Can Compel Me To Express Myself Through The Written Word.

I'll Be Inside The One Who Holds You. And Then I Won't Be.

But Be Careful; Sand Is Already Broken But Glass Breaks. The Shoes Are For Dancing, Not Running Away.

I Wrote Poetry From The Time I Could Write. That Was The Only Way I Could Begin To Express Who I Was But The Poems Didn't Make Sense To My Teachers. They Didn't Rhyme. They Were About The Wind Sounds, The Planets' Motions, Never About Who I Was Or How I Felt. I Didn't Think I Felt Anything. I Was This Mind More Than A Body Or A Heart. My Mind Photographing The Stars, Hearing The Wind.

I Dreamed You Were Standing In This Dark Place And You Touched These Dead Flowers And They Lit Up Like They Were Electric Or Something. Electric Lilies. Lighting Up The Valley.