I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

I always imagined music trapped inside my clarinet, not trapped inside of me. But what if music is what escapes when a heart breaks?

The. World. Is. Not. A. Safe. Place.

The guy's life drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?

I gasp, because Isn't that just exactly what I've been doing too: writing poems and scattering them to the winds with the same hope as Gram that someone, someday, somewhere might understand who I am, who my sister was, and what happened to us.

You have to see the miracles for there to be miracles.