I Think I Am Mad Sometimes.

Sometimes I Nursed Starfish Alive In Jam Jars Of Seawater And Watched Them Grow Back Lost Arms. On This Day, This Awful Birthday Of Otherness, My Rival, Somebody Else, I Flung The Starfish Against A Stone. Let It Perish.

I Write Only Because There Is A Voice Within Me That Will Not Be Still

Some Pale, Hueless Flicker Of Sensitivity Is In Me. God, Must I Lose It In Cooking Scrambled Eggs For A Man.

The Worst Enemy To Creativity Is Self-doubt.

I Love My Rejection Slips. They Show Me I Try.