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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.

Andrea Gibson

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Andrea Gibson
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: August 13
Poet
Calais
Maine
Andrew Gibson
Even
Causes
Guess
Like
Everyone
Record
Speak
Poetry
Inspirational
Cause
Kids
Records
Stutter
Ever
Team
Skipping
Firsts
Hear
Scratched
First
Worst
Picking

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But when I thought I hit bottom, it started hitting back. There is no bruise like the bruise loneliness kicks into your spine.
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I have never met a heavy heart that wasn’t a phone booth with a red cape inside Some people will never understand the kind of superpower it takes for some people to just walk outside Some days I know my smile looks like the gutter of a falling house But my hands are always holding tight to the ripchord of believing
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Remind me that the most fertile lands were built by the fires of volcanoes.
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Love is like sunshine. Sometimes you have to get burned to know you were there. I want to know that I'm here.
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The trauma said, ‘Don’t write these poems. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.
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Cause I might be naked and lonely Shaking branches for bones But I'm still time zones away From who I was the day before we met You were the first mile Where my heart broke a sweat And I wish you were here I wish you'd never left But mostly I wish you well I wish you my very very best.
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Sometimes the most healing thing to do is remind ourselves over and over and over, other people feel this too.
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Love isn't always magic. Sometimes it's just melting.
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We are all instruments pulling the bows across our own lungs. Windmills, still startling in every storm. Have you ever seen a newborn blinking at the light? I wanna do that every day. I wanna know what the kite called itself when it got away, when it escaped into the night.
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None of us are pretty, but our ugly has an alibi.
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If you’re handing out flashlights in the dark, start handing out stars.
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I’ve written this poem before but always through a window, never through an open door.
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The holy have done more damage to this world than the devil ever could.
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When your heart is broken, you plant seeds in the cracks and pray for rain.
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And we were Banksy on an overpass in New Orleans spray-painting porch lights on the hurricane. We were welcome mats for the un-forgiven. We never sold our windpipes to make a living. We were the letters sent to the wrong address, but opened anyway. We opened anyway.
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I don't have a single plan for my life more important than learning to love people well.
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That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth, and you can hear some of the lines every time you breathe out.
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If a tree fell in the forest, and you were the only one there to hear it if its fall to the ground didn’t make a sound, would you panic in fear that you didn’t exist, or would you bask in the bliss of your nothingness?
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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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What Gods do you believe in? I'll build you a temple of mirrors so you can see them.
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