His writing continued until he had a mystical experience which made him think of all he had done as “mere straw.” At the time of his death in 1274 he was under a cloud in Paris. (Him equals Thomas Aquinas)

I won’t make this about me, but know if you ever need someone to talk to I always have an open shoulder

Clumsiness is a word too often used as an excuse by those who are simply careless

If there is beauty in poetry, I seek to write it.

Faith speaks, and confidence answers.

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SECRET IS THE TRUTH.

My tongue slices and heals depending on how I’m treated

Perhaps we are strong if we do not suffer depression. Perhaps we are stronger still if we do and survive it.

One cannot plagiarize oneself.

Writing poetry isn't hard, it's realizing you're not yet good at it, that's hard.