I think you’ll find a girl who exhales answers instead of a never-ending stream of questions, one whose hands aren’t always ink-stained, one whose heart doesn’t live in her throat, one whose demons are small enough to be tucked into the back of her closet, sealed in a box, only let out once or twice a year when she’s drunk off of cheap wine, a girl who doesn’t feel like her head is going to explode every day, who doesn’t dream about the kitchen knives. You’ll find a girl who doesn’t write poems for you, but that’s okay because she smiles all the time and there is always light in her eyes, never a thunderstorm.
I will try not to blame you when you find this girl because now that I know what a horrible place my own mind is, I could never ask someone else to want to stay there too.
I learned that people can easily forget that others are human.
in your eyes
when I realized
I had started
along the way.
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing. Strong and content I travel the open road.
He asked, “What makes a writer?” “Well,” I said, “it’s simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge.