We Are All Writing God's Poem.

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

My Objects Dream And Wear New Costumes, Compelled To, It Seems, By All The Words In My Hands And The Sea That Bangs In My Throat.

My Faith Is A Great Weight Hung On A Small Wire, As Doth The Spider Hang Her Baby On A Thin Web.

The Trouble With Therapy Is That It Makes Life Go Backwards.

Craft Is A Trick You Make Up To Let You Write The Poem.