“I knew you would leave someday; And from there a poet will be born from the ashes.”

I held my breath underwater and felt surrender in my lungs; maybe this too counts as love.

And when the cold comes, I swear I can feel her in my bones.

Today I can see the cracks on the wall they’re visible; but I can tell they are finding their way to soil, And so am I.

Maybe water is not entirely lost when soaked into sand. Maybe it finds a better resting place to call home; and I hope she did too.

All through the depression, I was the soft toy in the hands of a baby with sharp teeth.

After healing I’ll run back to her – of course this poem demands a brutal ending!

It is my dying wish to travel around the world; to feel this hurt in a slightly different way!

Sometimes even in pain we smile to the world until we think we’re dying.

The broken worlds we hide inside; that’s how we start to die!

Most days missing her is my only choice between death and dying.

Often times the language is different; by which I mean, I love her, and it’s the only stammer I’ve ever known.

I’ve seen it, I know it too; love still dances in the fire after the rescue.

I forget how our story started; but these days I’m finding the missing pieces behind every exhale, where I left the words standing with sore feet.

I can feel the dust of her skin in my skin; and I think maybe that means these bones of mine have grown weary of crying too.

This ‘missing you’ It begs for water; it cries your name.

Please the night’s cold, not her name again!

Revolution is an inalienable right of mankind. Freedom is an imperishable birth right of all. Labor is the real sustainer of society, the sovereignty of the ultimate destiny of the workers.

Can we be who we are and who we are born to be and can we let everything else go?

We’re products of this world we were born into. We all battle our own demons. Everyone is troubled in the dark, but, please just stop & think about the babies. They’re gonna be here long after we leave.

America was born a Christian nation.

Poetry is only born after painful journeys into the vast regions of thought.

Whenever I hear people discussing birth control, I always remember that I was fifth.

When I was born, I was effectively dead. Weird, I know. The doctors couldn’t get any reaction from me, so I had to be brought round, and although it seemed like I was okay, there were underlying problems.

Every man should be born again on the first day of January. Start with a fresh page