I seek to be moved, my imagination reborn.Let me feast on poems that feed my hunger.

Foggy nights bring some comfort.He can get lost in the mistand there is no one to stare or question.

How do I learn to speakwhen silence is all I know?

But the walls of my resolvemortared with stubbornnesshave been breached by circumstancesI cannot handle alone.

Let me live my final days whole.Let my memory remain that I might know love's face.Life don't unwrap me to be fed to scavengers.I want to escape into light - not exist in darkness.

I now know how your angercame from skeletonsthat rattled in your heartand you couldn't escape them.

I am lost in my world, invisible - unknown.Moon please lend meyour light that someonewill me see me.

If there is passion, let me feel its heat.I want my heart to beat fast, my breath raspy, my skin to burn.

I am a butterfly poetbirthed from painflying with the freedomof my verses.

I didn't know the demonsthat walked across your memory.They came from the dustwhen you were at peacein your grave.

For my 20th birthday in March, I'll buy myself a present for doing my best. A one way ticket to Tokyo. All I need is my guitar and a pack of cigarettes.

I wrote the book because I wanted to be able to share some things that I had learned and as pompous as that may sound, as you get to a certain point in life, you figure so what am I doing?

Creating the record is like digging up the earth, planting your seeds and waiting to see what happens.

Yes, though I have nothing but gratitude for my upbringing in the church.

The affectation of some late authors to introduce and multiply cant words is the most ruinous corruption in any language.

Maybe happiness was an hourglass already running out, the grains tipping, sifting past each other. Maybe it was a state of mind.

The manager who comes up with the right solution to the wrong problem is more dangerous than the manager who comes up with the wrong solution to the right problem.

I sign so many autographs, my hand hurts every day.

Considering the current sad state of our computer programs, software development is clearly still a black art, and cannot yet be called an engineering discipline.

The only time that most women give their orating husbands undivided attention is when the old boys mumble in their sleep.