Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
God is only mocked by believers.
I think it will be a miracle if I don’t someday end up killing myself.
I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
It’s a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
Poetry to me is prayer...
Letters are false really – they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are...
I feel unspeakably lonely. And I feel – drained. It is a blank state of mind and soul I cannot describe to you as I think it would not make any difference. Also it is a very private feeling I have – that of melting into a perpetual nervous breakdown. I am often questioning myself what I further want to do, who I further wish to be; which parts of me, exactly, are still functioning properly. No answers, darling. At all.
That’s what I do: I make coffee and occasionally succumb to suicidal nihilism. But you shouldn’t worry – poetry is still first. Cigarettes and alcohol follow.
How are you? How is your wonderful bathroom? How are the books you read and the things you think? Your dogs and their lives? The weather? Your feelings?
The rest of my room is book shelves. I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
Poetry led me by the hand out of madness.
I don’t care, I love you anyhow. It is too late to turn you out of my heart. Part of you lives here.
I should be working and not writing you. But this is a missing you, where are you, hello and necessary for my soul.
How you choose to lose yourself matters. Trust me, it’s all in the ‘how’. It matters a lot.
This November there seems to be nothing to say.
I never seemed to like the spring for what it was; I always loved it for what it might have been. In the head. In the heart of hearts. It is in my ability, I think, to love something fully only if I am naturally, compulsively, irrationally drawn to it.
And there you are. And I liked you a lot today. A lot. And I want to talk to you. Selfishly.
Pain engraves a deeper memory.