The kind of poem I produced in those days was hardly anything more than a sign I made of being alive, of passing or having passed, or hoping to pass, through certain intense human emotions. It was a phenomenon of orientation rather than of art, thus comparable to stripes of paint on a roadside rock or to a pillared heap of stones marking a mountain trail.
You can make a difference in another person’s life and not realize it, just by giving them One Moment of your time, One Memory to recall, One Motion that tells them they are not alone! OM!
In any case, it’s the cowardice of people like you who give dictators the chance to install themselves!
The camera only documented what had been there all along, a marriage whose foundations, constructed from the cheap materials of convention and fear, had been buckling for years.
Her love of words is a private passion – one she would rather not share. In the house of her childhood though everything had to be shared. If she tried to hold anything back, they would search and find the hidden places. Her written words, discovered, read were just the source of more pain and punishment. This was why she loved poetry. They did not always understand it so they left it alone.
I guess this means we’re uck-fayed, don’t it Mikee?
It was as if we’d known each other for a thousand years.
Negative self talk costs more than even the richest person can afford. So be nice to yourself whenever possible … and know that it is always possible.
It was heartbreaking to realize how we can fail the people we most love without even trying.
I had failed to make a gift of myself to God.