the butterfly brigade.

Leonardo da Vinci intrigued the world with the beauty of the Mona Lisa And Claude Monet painted landscapes even more breathtaking than Mother Nature created them Vincent Van Gogh captured the movements of the world on stationary canvas And Pablo Picasso created the most expensive painting that has ever been sold But I don’t think any of them could have made a masterpiece like you if they tried

I’ve seen a liquor bottle broken open on A man’s head & him continue walking & then saw a man break down weeping At the scent of peaches

Sometimes people use “respect” to mean “treating someone like a person” and sometimes they use “respect” to mean “treating someone like an authority”

My shadow and my reflection have  One thing in common: Neither of them is me. They’re illusions, parts, sometimes  Pieces. But my puzzle consists of more than What’s behind and in front. Sometimes, I’m a traveler. I’m foggy sunrises, coffee stained decisions, And dusty books sitting on someone’s nightstand. I’m a song by The Killers, A crimson, forgotten dream, A crumbled up anonymous letter which Only words were, “I’ve loved you.” I’m raindrops in the asphalt, The sound of crashing waves, The cold smoke left when you breathe. Other times, I’m disembodied. I’m thoughts thrown at the Pacific, Falling comets landing nowhere, The last line in your poem. I’m whatever I want to be, and Some of what you wish for me. Perhaps, even, I’m what you don’t wish. My shadow is only a follower, My reflection is a perception. I’m a puzzle, completely incomplete. These pieces are scattered throughout The world, And every time I pick a few, A million are left in my footprints.

It is an extremely common mistake. People think the writers imagination is always at work, that he’s constantly inventing an endless supply of incidents and episodes, that he simply dreams up his stories out of thin air. In point of fact, the opposite is true. Once the public knows you’re a writer, they bring the characters and events to you, and as long as you maintain your ability to look and to carefully listen, these stories will continue to seek you out over your lifetime.

What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do with its love?

Dear Heart, It would be nice if you slowed down a little. I’m not very happy with the thoughts my mind is flooded with everyday, the unsatisfactory want for someone who isn’t here. In comparison to the rest of my body, you seem so small, yet you carry so much weight and pull the rest of me with a string. The average human heart beats at 72 beats per minute but I’m pretty sure I’m somewhere above or below average; you jump over beats like hurdles in track and field. And I don’t like your mood swings, one minute you’re calm like a lazy river on a Monday morning, and the next you’re raging as if I drank one too many bottles of Gatorade, or saw a ghost known as a memory.— And I know, I know you have your own bruises and scars too, you’re purple even though I’ve never been to the military. With every palpitation, I’m reminded of your own war against the stresses of life and time. Your fight is a war in itself, the want for something you just can’t have. Yet. And it’s that same hope that lifts you up when you trip and knocks you right back into the dust when things don’t or can’t work out. Now I’m not saying you should stop beating. But you could at least slow down just long enough for things to go your way.

Maybe sometimes 
 our hearts are made to; 
beat a little faster,
 feel a little heavier, ache a little harder? So that one day, 
It can say to another 
 “I’ve been there 
I’ve danced to the beat 
 I’ve carried the weight 
I’ve healed from the ache” Maybe it’s as simple as that? 
 as simple as being able to 
relate & help another by saying 
“I’ve been there
 so trust me, 
You’ll come out stronger.

After everything was said and done, I think we both threw the fuel that burned our bridges. We fell in love with the same river, but preferred the view from different shores.