Quote

she's wondering how many women are walking around this world feeling the tingling of their amputated wings remembering what it was to fly to sing

Andrea Gibson

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Andrea Gibson
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: August 13
Poet
Calais
Maine
Andrew Gibson
Around
Remembering
Remember
Wondering
Women
Wings
Many
Sing
World
Walking
Wonder
Feeling
Amputated
Feelings
Tingling

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You never wish on shooting stars. You wish on the ones that have the courage to shine where they are.
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We have to create it is the only thing louder than destruction.
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I'm good at loving books. I'm good at loving soft bed sheets. I'm good at loving coffees and teas. I am good at loving things that can't love me back, that don't have the power to leave. And maybe, that's why I love them.
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I thought, The flowers, save the flowers... I never thought for a second we wouldn't save the people
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You have a heart of gold and I am kneeling in your bloodstream panning for the only thing that has ever felt like home.
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I'm never gonna wait that extra twenty minutes to text you back and I'm never gonna play hard to get when I know your life has been hard enough already.
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Safety isn't always safe. You can find one on every gun.
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If you’re handing out flashlights in the dark, start handing out stars.
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I know you think this world is too dark to even dream in color, but I’ve seen flowers bloom at midnight. I’ve seen kites fly in gray skies and they were real close to looking like the sunrise, and sometime it takes the most wounded wings the most broken things to notice how strong the breeze is, how precious the flight.
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We all have bullets beneath our skin we pray our lovers won't flinch at when they find.
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Last night I saw your ghost pedalling a bicycle with a basket towards a moon as full as my heavy head and I wanted nothing more than to be sitting in that basket like ET with my glowing heart glowing right through my chest and my glowing finger pointing in the direction of our home.
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We're boxed in and labeled before we're ever able to speak who we believe we are or who we dream we'll become.
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Touch me 'til my ribs become piano keys.
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Remind me that the most fertile lands were built by the fires of volcanoes.
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I’ve written this poem before but always through a window, never through an open door.
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Do you think anger is a sincere emotion or the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain?
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My heart is still a leather jacket I am waiting to give to someone sweet.
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Everyone’s chest is a living room wall with awkwardly placed photographs hiding fist-shaped holes.
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You panic button collector. You clock of beautiful ticks. You run out the door if you need to. You flock to the front row of your own class. You feather everything until you know you can always, always shake like a leaf on my family tree and know you belong here. You belong here and everything you feel is okay. Everything you feel is okay.
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I’d cut my soul into a million different pieces just to form a constellation to light your way home. I’d write love poems to the parts of yourself you can’t stand. I’d stand in the shadows of your heart and tell you I’m not afraid of your dark.
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