After I write I feel displeased; this could be better. Yet months to a year later...'how lovely'.

I sincerely don't know what I'm doing.

Up until 1 year ago, I thought sonnets were a complexly woven type of hat.

Anxiety sufferers don't believe the world evolves around them, but devolves around them.

I play because I love.

I don't want to die, but if I have to I will.

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

One cannot plagiarize oneself.

If I am plan B, then I have spared many from plan C.

The more I tell myself to shut-up, the worse I get.