We are full of bread and gas, getting fat on the outside while inside we grow thin
I resented my mother for guessing my innermost secrets. She was like God, everywhere at once knowing everything.
We make art out of our loss.
Poetry is a string of words that parades without a permit.
There is a way that nature speaks, that land speaks. Most of the time we are simply not patient enough, quiet enough, to pay attention to the story.
tears have a purpose. they are what we carry of the ocean, and perhaps we must become the sea, give ourselves to it, if we are to be transformed.