The future gets no say in who we are.
Pretend – inside your skin – you've got a friend, who's willing to give you everything you ever wanted in exchange for all you've ever been.
I should have told You before talking in terms of Forever that any given day wears me out and works me sour, that there are nights when the sky is so clear I stand obnoxious underneath it begging for the stars to shoot at me just so I can feel at Home.
Stop inviting walls into wide open spaces.
The truth is that this universe is gassy and unpredictable.
It still has not said excuse me for The Big Bang.
Sometimes we expect too much instead of practicing enough
or receiving in us just the right answer.
You, the Staggering Answer
What paper planes and empty seats most have in common
is that they are best made by children still learning how to ride things out.
A trajectory of misery – at this point – seems intentional.
We have all the information we need to see clearly.
We are no longer unaware toddlers on the landscape of consciousness.
It is no longer cute to crap ourselves.
The first time my town saw the sky it sucker-punched us in the throat, left us breathless, said, I'm gonna keep you awake some nights without touching you. You'll make it up, the pain, you always do.
You are the home I point to that lives in my chest.
If I didn't have so much of this life all wrong I would have gotten it right by now.
I am standing like shoe polish on an overstocked shelf hoping that one day someone will pick me to make things better.
I'm ready to kill something. I'll probably only get as far as my brain cells, but I am going to kill them.
There is life after survival.
If you've never been rocked back by the presence of purpose this poem is too soon for you. Return to your mediocrity, plug it into an amplifier and rethink yourself.
You're not the only piece of patchwork birds can pull worms from.
Stop congregating in the valley just because an echo sounds good when it agrees with itself.
You can call me an angry ghost when I'm gone, or laugh into my disposition. But my mom will still see me as her wide-eyed wanderer out behind the garage inventing ways to fend off dog attacks that will probably never happen.
Hearts don't break, y'all. They bruise and get better.
I choose to politely ask myself to step aside if I am in my own way. If I do not get out of my way, I choose to call a friend who will have me removed.
Even good hearts know how to turn bad touch and genocide into clichés just to make room for more comfort.
I would fall in love with you if you would beat these people out of me.
Everything is out there. That's why they call it everything.
The best songs are the ones about Georgia, even though I've never been there. It's the only place I still believe in Jesus.
How honest is it that we drink until we are dehydrated?
Make love to me like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
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