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

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

Even good hearts know how to turn bad touch and genocide into clichés just to make room for more comfort.

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.

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.

The future gets no say in who we are.