“Reading has always been my sweetest escape, but I write to convey that which I want to escape or what scares me to say, even if it’s something positive.”

I write poems of the past; they reveal the reasons we didn’t last.

My body is a field site of muscle memory and weathered bones.

I can’t take it all in or else I’ll grow cold when the heat already escapes my fingers and toes.

I wish you could feel it when it’s dark at night, and I think of you when I pass the streetlights. But I know you feel the care without me being there.

Healing means looking within when you want to move on. Healing means letting go when your grip is too tight.

When you write me into your story, don’t set my end in stone. Feel free to let me go. I’d like to join your story, but remember I have my own.

I want to tell them how tired I am because I don’t think it shows. But maybe it’s the same for them – all strangers to the weight each of us carries. So alone, we carry these loads.

We’re so distant, words can’t save us.

I lost touch with the world around me – gone unnoticed by that which surrounds me, but I must find the presence of that which grounds me if I am to once again grasp onto everything I lost touch with.

It takes less for me to be impacted, for my state of being to worsen.

You wonder why you didn’t do it sooner – why you didn’t clear your mind when the clouds loomed.

I was never lonely alone because love has come to me in many forms, and one of them was you.

And I saw forever in your eyes ‘til the sunset started to dim your light. You told me you’d always hold me tight, but your warmth faded with the bright.

You are chaos in my heart – clogging up my arteries. I can’t move on or bring in more love than what was at the start

They tell me summer is coming, and soon we’ll be dancing on the shore. Waiting for the moonlight to light me up amongst the starlight.

I try to build myself a bridge to cross every time I start to ruminate on my thoughts.

Take me from this wasteland, for I have longed for an escape like a bird that craves the wilderness, from every corner of his cage.

How dismal it is to see present day Americans yearning for the very orthodoxy that their country was founded to escape.

Those who leave the tradition of truth do not escape into something which we call Freedom. They only escape into something else, which we call Fashion.

I’ve always gravitated towards people who are extreme. Whether its drugs, or kicking down doors. Normally, the people in my life had to escape to get back.

For me, visuals are as important as the music. I just love escapism and giving people something to escape to. To me, that’s what art is.

For poems are like rainbows; they escape you quickly.

Beauty for some provides escape, who gain a happiness in eyeing the gorgeous buttocks of the ape or Autumn sunsets exquisitely dying.

She had been so consumed with escaping her own misery, she hadn’t considered the misery she might inflict.