Everyone In Me Is A Bird I

Put Your Ear Down Close To Your Soul And Listen Hard.

I Said, The Poets Are There I Hear Them Singing And Lying Around Their Round Table And Around Me Still.

A Woman Who Writes Feels Too Much.

God Has A Brown Voice, As Soft And Full As Beer.

I Am So Imperfect, Can You Love Me When Really My Soul Is Deformed? Will You Love Me Anyhow?