Perhaps, Perhaps This Would Be The One

For Me, Poetry Is An Evasion Of The Real Job Of Writing Prose.

Can A Selfish Egocentric Jealous And Unimaginative Female Write A Damn Thing Worthwhile?

The Slime Of All My Yesterdays Rots In The Hollow Of My Skull.

The Box Is Only Temporary.

If Only I Knew What I Wanted I Could Try To See About Getting It.