Ten Years, She's Dead, And I Still

I Get So Lonely Sometimes, I Could Put A Box On My Head And Mail Myself To A Stranger.

There's A Space At The Bottom Of An Exhale, A Little Hitch Between Taking In And Letting Out That's A Perfect Zero You Can Go Into. There's A Rest Point Between The Heart Muscle's Close And Open - An Instant Of Keenest Living When You're Momentarily Dead. You Can Rest There.

I'd Spent Way More Years Worrying About How To Look Like A Poet -- Buying Black Clothes, Smearing On Scarlet Lipstick, Languidly Draping Myself Over Thrift-store Furniture -- Than I Had Learning How To Assemble Words In Some Discernible Order.

People Who Didn't Live Pre-internet Can't Grasp How Devoid Of Ideas Life In My Hometown Was. I Stopped In The Middle Of The Sat To Memorize A Poem, Because I Thought, This Is A Great Work Of Art And I'll Never See It Again.

I Believe In God, But Even If You Don't, You Can Believe In A Self, The Person Who Is Innately Who You Are. Once You Fully Become That Person, Then Everything You Do Will Be Blessed.