Poetry To Me Is Prayer.

For I Could Not Read Or Speak And On The Long Nights I Could Not Turn The Moon Off Or Count The Lights Of Cars Across The Ceiling.

You Must Be A Poet, A Lady Of Evil Luck Desiring To Be What You Are Not, Longing To Be What You Can Only Visit.

I Am Crazy As Hell, But I Know It. And Knowing It Is A Kind Of Sanity That Makes The Sickness Worse.

There Is An Animal Inside Me, Clutching Fast To My Heart, A Huge Crab.

All I Am Is The Trick Of Words Writing Themselves.