...others, with halos shaped like rollercoasters you'd stand in line to ride twice.

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.

How honest is it that we drink until we are dehydrated?

Jordan tattoos the words "forgive me" in thick black letters down the inside of his arm so that when he looks at his wrist he will remember not to hate himself so much. What he keeps forgetting is that there is life after survival.

There is a point when tears don't work to wash things away anymore. Grabbing for breath has now broken my fingers.

If I didn't have so much of this life all wrong I would have gotten it right by now.

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