The writer’s curse is that even in solitude, no matter its duration, he never grows lonely or bored.
We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.
Poetry is ordinary language raised to the nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.
Stress is an ignorant state. It believes that everything is an emergency. Nothing is that important.
There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.
In order to be free, we must learn how to let go. Release the hurt. Release the fear. Refuse to entertain the old pain.
Learn to value yourself, which means: fight for your happiness.