I am not being put in a frame and nailed to an empty wall. I am not being drenched in ink and shoved in the bottom of a junk drawer. I am not being planted, potted or picked in a garden beside a rose colored glass door…

I haven’t laughed in a while. Like really laughed. The laugh that hurts my stomach. The laugh that when I try to speak nothing comes out and the only thing you can hear is the sound of our hands slapping the ground or our knees or each others arms…

Wet paint signs flashed all the passerbys. Rather tempting than restrictive. Everyone is trying to get their shit together around this time of year, even the buildings…

…Every color is my favorite color. Here is what I mean: My favorite color is pink when my best friend gets a new shade of lipstick and is so excited to show it off…

The ancient key clicks the front door unlocked. My hands full so I push it open with my foot and it releases a pleasant whiff of nostalgia into the world. The glass door that creeks shut behind me allows the sun to bleed into the dusty corners of the foyer…

The 6 o'clock sun floods my room, filling it with beams of bliss. It knocks on every wall as if testing their structures, briefly and gently…

I’ve felt it all, good and bad, joy and pain, infatuation and jealousy, understanding and confusion, excitement and dread, utterly alive and nearly dead. To live is to feel…

Its a quiet afternoon in the coffee shop. One solemn sleeper on hour, begging me for a potent cup of caffeine to prolong their ability to accomplish something, anything…

It was a mistake the first time I touched one because two years later they are what I pick up when i am lonely. At first it was just for fun, I didn’t think i would smoke another one and another one, and now I am stuck trying to convince myself it’s still just for fun…