I spat in the eye of inspiration, and inspiration will have none of it.
I’m going to eat some chicken nuggets even though I know they don’t treat chicken right.
My muse is a ninja assassin, and I am a pacifist who believes to turn the other cheek is tantamount to murder.
I’m wrestling past transgressions.
I’m sitting on the floor, pressing down the keys as the words appear before me wanton and without a sexual orientation.
I’m going mad as I consider watching Noah and pretending Russell Crowe is still a good actor.
The poetry comes, and the poetry goes.
I’ve used a pencil, pen, typewriter, word processor and now a laptop.
This line of work is not for the squeamish because there is no work to be had, and if you have a heart you’re sure to end up vacant, numb and completely isolated.
I don’t envy Icarus one bit.
I don’t pretend to be anything but a redhead with freckles who burns too easily in the sun.
I don’t like strawberries, and I’m not sure I’d know what to do with a plate of crab legs if they were set down in front of me.
I had a friend who was a guitar-exorcist.
He was the only person who got me, and I believe that’s because he never listened to my whining or put up with my bullshit.
I had a friend who was a prophet of the heart like Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan.
I have fallen down a black hole.
I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.
I am through pretending as I accept that sleep may be the most addictive drug of all.