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There is a point when tears don't work to wash things away anymore. Grabbing for breath has now broken my fingers.

Buddy Wakefield

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Buddy Wakefield
Age: 50
Born: 1974
Born: June 4
Poet
Shreveport
Louisiana
Work
Breath
Things
Breaths
Fingers
Anymore
Tears
Broken
Point
Grabbing
Away
Wash

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I would fall in love with you if you would beat these people out of me.
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The truth is that this universe is gassy and unpredictable. It still has not said excuse me for The Big Bang. Sometimes we expect too much instead of practicing enough or receiving in us just the right answer. You, the Staggering Answer
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I don't care to be good, Sheriff. I care to be whole.
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If we really do get what we give then I give up, so I can get up.
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The future gets no say in who we are.
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If I didn't have so much of this life all wrong I would have gotten it right by now.
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We were never tragedies. We were emergencies. You go ahead, call 9-1-1. Tell them I'm havin' a fantastic time.
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How honest is it that we drink until we are dehydrated?
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I choose to politely ask myself to step aside if I am in my own way. If I do not get out of my way, I choose to call a friend who will have me removed.
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Stop inviting walls into wide open spaces.
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What children and the landing of a plane most have in common is that they are best made by a line drive of pilot lights guided through a single tambourine across the day we met in a field of wet metal hands on The Gospel of Lightning.
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Knowing me is easy. You can still twist your hair and feel silly. Look up the word tacky and have a salad. But when we're together you pull bread apart with your fingers into bites sometimes so small I gotta remind you, Peach, it is okay to be hungry.
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Make love to me like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
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Everything is out there. That's why they call it everything.
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I'm ready to kill something. I'll probably only get as far as my brain cells, but I am going to kill them.
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If you've never been rocked back by the presence of purpose this poem is too soon for you. Return to your mediocrity, plug it into an amplifier and rethink yourself.
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You're a free-standing landing pad held together by choir claps.
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...others, with halos shaped like rollercoasters you'd stand in line to ride twice.
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A trajectory of misery – at this point – seems intentional. We have all the information we need to see clearly. We are no longer unaware toddlers on the landscape of consciousness. It is no longer cute to crap ourselves.
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But I still show up for gentleman practice in the company of lead dancers, hoping their grace will get stuck in my shoes.
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