He never gave up on me, I only stopped being matriculated.

Such a small, pure object a poem could be, made of nothing but air a tiny string of letters, maybe small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. But it could blow everybody's head off.

But I'm not ready to stop listening to the screwed-up inner voice that's been ordering me around for a lifetime. My head thinks it can kill me... and go on living without me.

Those are only rumors of suffering. Real suffering has a face and a smell. It lasts in the most intense form no matter what you drape over it. And it knows your name.

The shreiking fight or the out-of-character insult endures forever, while the daily sweetness dissolves like sugar in water.

Even the best of us are at least part-time bastards.

How much smaller the large places are once we're grown up, when we have car keys and credit cards.