Tag Archives: poet
We are all messes of ourselves, and yet somehow the pieces always make a puzzle.
I suppose we are all walking on a path of dust to the mountains.
Counting freckles in the mountains.
I looked up and saw the Milky Way painted across the sky like it wasn’t real and it made me feel like, really, neither was I.
Perhaps I should have known.
Written half in Prague and half in London and wholly from my heart.
Adventure is calling and it always sounds like the mountains for some reason. I can’t wait for the next great escape.
Written somewhere on a bus in the middle of Laos and I remember the moment of writing it as much as the summer of dreams and dungarees.
I think this one might be a work in progress, but I like it all the same. You are yours and yours alone, and you are whole and perfect in that sense. Just think.