To Me, The Mind Seems

Everyone Is So Different. I Sometimes Wish I Wrote In A Different Way. You Know, That Feeling Of: So-and-so Writes Slowly, If Only I Wrote Slowly.

The Older I Get, The More I Feel.

If I Wrote In A Sonnet Form, I Would Be Distorting. Or If I Had Some Great New Idea For Line Breaks And I Used It In A Poem, But It's Really Not Right For That Poem, But I Wanted It, That Would Be Distorting.

She'd Crack A Joke Sharp As A Tin Lid Hot From The Teeth Of The Can-opener, And Cackle Her Crack-corn Laugh.

When Anyone Escapes, My Heart / Leaps Up. Even When It's I Who Am Escaped From, / I Am Half On The Side Of The Leaver.