(2013)
I grew up in a house built in 1937 long before codes and regulations and sometimes
I was like a rain cloud over a small garden and dammit if you weren’t that garden so full of flowers that I fell in love
I don’t remember any anesthesia after talking with you but I woke up stitched back
All that I know how to do is write about death without dying and write about life
Autumn sneaks in preceding dormancy Leaves take on new beauty with nothing left in them but a fa… Individually insignificant
If nature were so flattered by poems written with itself in mind as people are we would be moving mountains
I write sharp words with a sharper knife on page after page of what might as well be the skin of my back
Just when I get back on my feet you pass on by and I lose my footing Again
Everyone sees god in a different light but I was born without eyes
Passion doesn’t arise from 12 point Times New Roman but rather from ink on one page and another
There is poetry in nature better left to be spoken wordlessly by the breeze
So much time passes without feeling a single thing that I think I would give anything
Everyday I lived out a song written just for you But you could
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
Everyday I visit the only writers block I know to hone my words and wit and help them cut deeper into the skin
