I don't want to turn any of this into poetry / but / you're so beautiful / flowers turn their heads to smell you

I accept that today may be imperfect... I accept that I may be as well. What I don't accept is that imperfection should be the crutch I use to excuse myself from participating in joy.

I will not stop. I will not slow down. I will not pull over to ask for directions. I will build the road that takes me where I want to be and I will drive, drive, drive. I will drive until the vehicle around me breaks down, falls apart and tumbles into useless debris... and then I will walk.

But we are more than genteel or civilized/ we are an idea in the process of being realized.

Don't tell me you're not beautiful. You're the kind of beautiful the blind would see if we could figure out some way to give them three seconds of sight.

If you can't see anything beautiful about yourself, get a better mirror.

My heart is a protest that I let rally against my ribs.