The Main Thing I Wanted To Say,

That’s What I Love About Poetry. The More Abstract, The Better. The Stuff Were Your Not Sure What The Poets Talking About. You May Have An Idea, But You Cant Be Sure. Not A Hundred Percent. Each Word, Specifically Chosen, Could Have A Million Different Meanings. Is It A Stand-in ―a Symbol For Another Idea? Does It Fit Into A Larger, More Hidden, Metaphor? ...i Hated Poetry Until Someone Showed Me How To Appreciate It. He Told Me To See Poetry As A Puzzle. Its Up To The Reader To Decipher The Code, Or The Words, Based On Everything They Know About Life And Emotions.

When You Write A Book For Publication, You're Writing It For Other People To Read.

You Told Me I Wrote That Poem Because I Was Afraid Of Dealing With Myself. And I Used My Mom As An Excuse, Accusing Her Of Not Appreciating Or Accepting Me, When I Should Have Been Saying Those Words Into A Mirror.

My Breathing Begins To Slow. The Tension In My Muscles Starts To Relax. Then, A Click In The Headphones. A Slow Breath Of Air. I Open My Eyes To Bright Moonlight. And Hannah, With Warmth. Thank You.

And At Some Point, The Struggle Becomes Too Much-too Tiring-and You Consider Letting Go. Allowing Tragedy... Or Whatever... To Happen.