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Remind me that the most fertile lands were built by the fires of volcanoes.

Andrea Gibson

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Andrea Gibson
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: August 13
Poet
Calais
Maine
Andrew Gibson
Lands
Remind
Built
Land
Fire
Volcanoes
Fires
Fertile

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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
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I intend to leave this life so shattered there's gonna have to be a thousand separate heavens for all of my flying parts
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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 am living today as someone I had not yet become yesterday and tonight I will borrow only pieces of who I am today to carry with me to tomorrow.
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Every lover is a storm chaser. Every good heart has lost its roof.
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Commit to loving yourself completely. It’s the most radical thing you will do in your lifetime.
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So guess what, if I ever have my own team I am picking everyone first even the worst kid and the kid with the stutter like a skipping record 'cause I know all of us are scratched, even if you can't hear it when we speak.
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I could never trust anyone who's well adjusted to a sick society.
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This is my heartbeat like yours, it is a hatchet It can build a house or tear one down.
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Yesterday i carved your name into the surface of an ice cube then held it against my chest til it melted into my aching pores today i cried so hard the neighbors knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to borrow some sugar.
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In your arms I forget what the yarn knows of sweaters. I forget how to hold myself together. So if I unfold now like a love letter tell me you'll write back soon. Tell me you'll still come untethered.
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Touch me 'til my ribs become piano keys.
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To think, a sweater, is made entirely of knots. My stomach could clothe a village.
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How many wars will it take us to learn that only the dead return?
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You can have a cold war with yourself, even in the summertime
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I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling good. I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling bad. I wanna know the first person who taught you your beauty could ever be reflected on a lousy piece of glass.
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You can find me on the moon waxing and waning. My heart full of petals, every single one begging 'Love me, love me, love me. Whoever I am. Whoever I become.'
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Right now there’s a man on the street outside my door with outstretched hands full of heartbeats no one can hear. He has cheeks like torn sheet music every tear-broken crescendo falling on deaf ears. At his side there’s a boy with eyes like an anthem no one stands up for.
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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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...And for every day you paint the war, take a week and paint the beauty, the color, the shape of the landscape you’re marching towards. Everyone knows what you’re against show them what you’re for.
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