“As if flesh and skin and hands are any match for bullets. As if bones won’t crack in hails of powder and lead. As if rivers of blood are not the direct result of trigger fingers that bend but do not break on “bad days”.”

To the oppressed with no seat on the table; dreaming of change and better days, I will pull up a chair, and light fires in your name.

I was looking for you in all the places our love used to be. When all along I should have been looking for me.

Some days, my mind will still be in prison, but I will live in spite of it. I unlearn how to swim; I trade my gills for lungs and wings.

I would throw down roots with you if I ever had the chance. We’d grow strong in tender shoots, and bloom in burning hands.

Creatives are neither born nor created. They are activated.

The glint of mischief in your eyes is the flint in my matchstick. Striking; always this close to igniting.

The search for external sources is nothing compared to internal forces.

Our memories lurch to a reluctant halt in their funeral march, so I can pour salt over them one last time.

Emotion = Energy in motion.

In my dreams you conjure me like a spell in the night. Let us haunt one another with uneasy peace, and die burning alive.

It quietly stops my breath to realize that my greatest grand gesture, my last, best act of love was to let you go.

Stop accepting abstract noun love. Real love is always action verb.

In my dreams we got past the parking lot; you took me past the old, oak door, led me up onto the vacant altar, and offered me to every god whose name you invoked as you worshipped my body.

The pain of your memory is sharp enough to be felt the nails raked along my back by somebody else.

I am strong. My heart still hopes. My mind still dreams. My soul still craves pouring energy into everything that I love.

He’ll keep somedaying and tommorwing until he has no tomorrows left. I don’t choose that.