Stop inviting walls into wide open spaces.

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.

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

But I still show up for gentleman practice in the company of lead dancers, hoping their grace will get stuck in my shoes.

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.

The first time my town saw the sky it sucker-punched us in the throat, left us breathless, said, I'm gonna keep you awake some nights without touching you. You'll make it up, the pain, you always do.