Bound in primal longings, we pine to be understood by ourselves.

I always feel vulnerable talking about the poetry aspect of my career because it's little diary entries that I need to sometimes close read, and to reveal that much, it's a bit nerve-racking.

In the end we're all searching for our home, that one place where we belong.

While some mothers sing lullabies to their children, my mother read me poetry. And to this day, I associate my strongest and most insistent feelings with words lyrically organized on a page.

We stalk the truth as poets, sensualists, a duality, limited insanity. We labor in our muse, carving alphabets of experience into our hearts.

I just don't know how to stitch words in a predictable way sometimes. It's a weird instinct I've developed.

We're renting the space that we call Earth, so we may as well just go for it.