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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?

Andrea Gibson

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Andrea Gibson
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: August 13
Poet
Calais
Maine
Andrew Gibson
Away
Motion
Heart
Fragile
Trying
Sincere
Think
Beat
Thinking
Beats
Anger
Emotion
Pain
Timid

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My mouth is a fire escape. The words coming out don’t care that they are naked. There is something burning in there.
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Sometimes the break in your heart is like the hole in the flute. Sometimes it’s the place where the music comes through.
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Touch me 'til my ribs become piano keys.
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If love did not exist, I would be so goddamn sane.
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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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I have always been comfortable weathering the storm. I’d like to get more comfortable weathering the sunny day.
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Remember, you didn’t come here to write your heart out. You came to write it in.
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I know a thousand things louder than a soldier's gun I know the heartbeat of his mother.
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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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We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.
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Someday we will dare to trade good for true
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I’ve written this poem before but always through a window, never through an open door.
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Safety isn't always safe. You can find one on every gun.
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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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I write because it is while I'm writing that I feel most connected to why we're here. I write because silence is a heavy weight to carry. I write to remember. I write to heal. I write to let the air in. I write as a practice of listening.
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My heart is still a leather jacket I am waiting to give to someone sweet.
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I'm not lookin' for someone who can save me. Life rafts might keep you afloat but they rarely get you anywhere and I've got places I wanna go. So break me in two, peel back my rib cage and cover every page of my heart with love poems you will burn someday.
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and I wonder if Beethoven held his breath the first time his fingers touched the keys the same way a soldier holds his breath the first time his finger clicks the trigger. We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.
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This is my body. It is no one's but mine.
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You can stand on the cliff of my heart and shout nothing but ‘ugly’ through me. I promise all I will echo back is ‘Beauty, beauty, you have always been beauty
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