At the end of the day all we ever need is something that helped pass the time and something that keeps time from passing.

Tomorrow camewith the illusion of todayeven more fleeting than yesterdayit camelike it always comesand wentlike it’s always gonelike a favorite song in its final secondsTomorrow came and leftleaving nothingnothing...but a familiarlingeringsense of loss behind.

How....will I ever truly depict you?You’re perfect, my writing isn’t.

A single poemis worth a hundredcozy winter nightskind wordsand healed wounds.

It is kind of ridiculous that a poet is expected to live in the real world.

Poetry keeps mein a highly drunken stateof divinity.

sometimes i wake upin the middleof the nightand findpoetry splatteredall over my bed.

may this poetrybe the homeyou will someday come back to.

you areso deliciousto my poetic side.