I Am At The Bookstore A Lot,

Love Won't Be Tampered With, Love Won't Go Away. Push It To One Side And It Creeps To The Other. Throw It In The Garbage And It Springs Up Clean. Try To Root It Out And It Only Flourishes. Love Is A Weed, A Dandelion That You Poison From Your Heart. The Taproots Wait. The Seeds Blow Off, Ticklish, Into A Part Of The Yard You Didn't Spray. And One Day, Though You Worked, Though You Prodded Out Each Spiky Leaf, You Lift Your Eyes And Dozens Of Fat Golden Faces Bob In The Grass.

Women Without Children Are Also The Best Of Mothers,often, With The Patience,interest, And Saving Grace That The Constant Relationship With Children Cannot Always Sustain. I Come To Crave Our Talk And Our Daughters Gain Precious Aunts. Women Who Are Not Mothering Their Own Children Have The Clarity And Focus To See Deeply Into The Character Of Children Webbed By Family. A Child Is Fortuante Who Feels Witnessed As A Peron,outside Relationships With Parents By Another Adult.

By Writing I Can Live In Ways That I Could Not Survive.

I Spend My Time Dwelling On Revenge And Try To Deal With The Monsters Crawling Out Of The Ashes.

If Life's A Joke, Then Suicide's A Bad Punch Line.