The pen must be
 mightier than the sword
 For there is nothing that
 will spill your guts faster
 than a bit of ink that says


I wish you had told me that on the good days kissing you would make me think that I knew what happiness was and on the bad days

If nature were so flattered by poems written with itself in mind as people are we would be moving mountains

I’ll keep searching for the meaning of life and I hope I find it as crumpled paper nearish a trash can

I’ve kept my eyes closed most of these past eighteen years because I find it just as dark

You asked what I knew about you and I thought up a list of twenty things

There is something to be said of a true friend One who will pull the knife from your back One who will stitch the wounds

So much time passes without feeling a single thing that I think I would give anything

Everyday brings a new death in three words give or take Some days I drown

Hope in another form but no fewer letters and I’ve been hoping for these past eight years so I’ll just keep on

I know that you were there in my dreams and in my arms Every dream we