Birthing hope from the madnessthat perches on the fenceof our once perfectdreams.

Through windows, in wishing wells, whispering in the wind...that's where I find you.

In that wounded place, buried betweenmy ribs and letting go, I miss you.

I die a little, In the echo of your silence.

I was just an option.Blown easily to piecesand offered to the skyby the sweet laced painupon your lips.

I can't love anymore.Except for you...I love you so much it hurts to breathe.

Bridge burned from end to end, and I don't miss you anymore.You delivered silenceI've birthed freedom.

You are the poemthat sticks in my throatteaching me to whisperwith the voice of my heart.

I've never seen beauty so devastatingas in the linesthat trace our hopeand fall from the stars.

Steep fall to the groundshatteringlike clay pigeons missed by bad shotsand unsteady hands.

Broken.As I search for hope, In the same eyesI lost it.

My workout regimen at the moment is nonexistent. I wake up in the morning and brush my teeth. My toothbrush and deodorant are my only dumbbells. That's about it.

Poetry is the fiery index to the genius of the age.

Callousness and insolence bring to bare unanimous social condemnation, while the simple efforts of politeness are admired; even in those who are otherwise despised.

Don't talk about your diet. It's just boring, and the last thing you need when dieting is to be considered boring.

It is our minds that create this world.

I'm very anxious not to fall into archaism or 'literary' diction. I want my vocabulary to have a very large range, but the words must be alive.

If we magnified blessings as much as we magnify disappointments, we would all be much happier.

I'm sure you agree that animals should not be abused - whether they're cats or dogs or chickens - and that stopping this abuse should be your number one priority.

We should respect each other as rational beings by trying to achieve our goals through reason and persuasion rather than threats and coercion.

By an image we hold on to our lost treasures, but it is the wrenching loss that forms the image, composes, binds the bouquet.