Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the ...

Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.

women are born twice.

All who love have lied.

I have been cut in two.

Poetry to me is prayer.

Death's in the good-bye.

Rats live on no evil star

Need is not quite belief.

I burn the way money burns.

My mouth blooms like a cut.

I grow old on my bitterness.

sorrow is easier than guilt.

Blue eyes wash off sometimes.

Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.

We are all writing God's poem.

In a dream you are never eighty.

God is only mocked by believers.

It would be pleasant to be drunk.

Mood can be as important as sense.

A woman who writes feels too much.

Poems aren't postcards to send home.

The joy that isn't shared dies young.

Even without wars, life is dangerous.

Love your self's self where it lives.

I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

The body is a damn hard thing to kill.

My mother was top billing in our house.

The sanest thing in this world is love.

Today life opened inside me like an egg.

I am a collection of dismantled almosts.

God owns heaven but He craves the earth.

Live or die, but don't poison everything.

O starry night, This is how I want to die

As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.

I am younger each year at the first snow.

Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.

Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.

Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.

I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.

Somebody who should have been born is gone.

life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.

I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.

All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.

I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.

Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.

A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.

Madness is a waste of time. It creates nothing.

God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.

Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

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