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.

may this poetrybe the homeyou will someday come back to.

let me diefrom having being drunk onindigo skies, my liver...overflowing with stars.

If I began to drawmyself away from youwe’d still be liketwo mixed colors of paintimpossible to separate.

A poem in the heart is worthmore than a million dollarsin the bank account.

I live there...where the birds are infiniteeverywherewhere they fleeit's a place your eyes can wanderbut never seeWhere everyone accepts me,Without any pretenseIt's a place your mind can picturebut never really comprehend.

poetrymelts my bones.enters my blood.and changesits composition.