With This Pen I Take In Hand

Being Sixteen In The Pants I Died Full Of Questions

It Is A Dead Heart. It Is Inside Of Me. It Is A Stranger Yet Once It Was Agreeable, Opening And Closing Like A Clam.

When I'm Writing, I Know I'm Doing The Thing I Was Born To Do.

And If I Tried To Give You Something Else, Something Outside Myself, You Would Not Know That The Worst Of Anyone Can Be, Finally, An Accident Of Hope

The Windows, The Starving Windows That Drive The Trees Like Nails Into My Heart.