File under "Inspiration ala Sylvia."

I need Plot: people growing: banging into each other and into circumstances; stewpot citizens: growing and hurting and loving and making the best of various bad jobs.

I have never found anyone who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I gave.

Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.

I retreat and revel in poetry and literature where the reward value is tangible and accepted. I really do not think deeply, really deeply. I want a romantic nonexistent hero.

Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.

Would it be too childish of me to say: I want? But I do want: theater, light, color, paintings, wine and wonder.

Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?

It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.