I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.