With Each Step My Heart Broke For

English Words Are Like Prisms. Empty, Nothing Inside, And Still They Make Rainbows.

Death Is The Mother Of Beauty.

How Could I Do It, How Could A Person Go That Low? And I Understand Your Question, To Which I Reply, Are You Kidding? That's Nothing. I'd Been Much Lower Than That. And I Expected To See Myself Do Worse.

We Can’t Always Tell The Whole Story About Ourselves.

I Hate Two Kinds Of Sentences You Hear In Workshops, The Ones Beginning "i Really Like ..." And The Ones Beginning "my Problem With This Poem Is ..."