Stop inviting walls into wide open spaces.

You can call me an angry ghost when I'm gone, or laugh into my disposition. But my mom will still see me as her wide-eyed wanderer out behind the garage inventing ways to fend off dog attacks that will probably never happen.

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

Stop congregating in the valley just because an echo sounds good when it agrees with itself.

Everybody knows that smiling is for little girls, the gays and certain kinds of fish who are smiling by accident.

The future gets no say in who we are.

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.