One of the hardest things in life to accept is a called third strike.

You live you die and death not ends it.

Not yesterday I learned to know,The love of bare November days,Before the coming of the snow.

I consider myself a poet first and a musician second. I live like a poet and I'll die like a poet.

The mind-is not the heart. I may yet live, as I know others live, To wish in vain to let go with the mind- Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells me That I need learn to let go with the heart.

Everybody's at war with different things...I'm at war with my own heart sometimes.