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

If we really do get what we give then I give up, so I can get up.

We can stick anything into the fog and make it look like a ghost.

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

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

I should have told You before talking in terms of Forever that any given day wears me out and works me sour, that there are nights when the sky is so clear I stand obnoxious underneath it begging for the stars to shoot at me just so I can feel at Home.

If we were created in God’s image, then when God was a child he smushed fire ants with his fingertips and avoided tough questions.