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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
Tears
Broken
Point
Grabbing
Away
Wash
Work
Breath
Things
Breaths
Fingers
Anymore

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Stop inviting walls into wide open spaces.
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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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You're a free-standing landing pad held together by choir claps.
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Everybody knows that smiling is for little girls, the gays and certain kinds of fish who are smiling by accident.
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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 first time my town saw the sky it sucker-punched us in the throat, left us breathless, said, I'm gonna keep you awake some nights without touching you. You'll make it up, the pain, you always do.
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Everything is out there. That's why they call it everything.
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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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Stop congregating in the valley just because an echo sounds good when it agrees with itself.
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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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You are the home I point to that lives in my chest.
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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 I didn't have so much of this life all wrong I would have gotten it right by now.
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How honest is it that we drink until we are dehydrated?
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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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Jordan tattoos the words forgive me in thick black letters down the inside of his arm so that when he looks at his wrist he will remember not to hate himself so much. What he keeps forgetting is that there is life after survival.
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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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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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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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