We were never tragedies. We were emergencies. You go ahead, call 9-1-1. Tell them I'm havin' a fantastic time.

I am standing like shoe polish on an overstocked shelf hoping that one day someone will pick me to make things better.

If you've never been rocked back by the presence of purpose this poem is too soon for you. Return to your mediocrity, plug it into an amplifier and rethink yourself.

I'm ready to kill something. I'll probably only get as far as my brain cells, but I am going to kill them.

Hearts don't break, y'all. They bruise and get better.

I would fall in love with you if you would beat these people out of me.

There was a typewriter buried alive in that horse, the one I road to get out of the flood.