I just passed where the accident was
when I was little whenever we passed something like that my parents would make me cover my eyes
But this time I couldn’t cover my eyes
I saw it all
the mangled car
the skid marks which stopped at the edge of the cliff where the car went off
the police taking pictures of the wreck their faces emotionless and blank
the flaggers slowly letting people through, smoking away the stress of what they saw
I feel for the officer who had to tell the family “There’s been a fatal accident” and I feel for the family who had an officer knock on their door and say “There’s been a fatal accident”
And I wish
That my parents were there to say “close your eyes” so I didn’t have to see the violence and sadness of life and death
But this time
I had to drive by
Eyes wide
to the reminder that no one has forever

I was told to never fall in love with a writer.
But, a writer that recites his work with his hands is ten times more dangerous.
Eventually, you'll find yourself immensely fascinated by the veins that can play keys oh-so softly; soft enough to cradle an infant,
or even the aggressive way he fills your entire childhood bedroom with such impossible power and passion
in a single chord.
But, these hands are dangerous.
Just as they can hammer into the piano, his hands can rip through your heart. His hands will never just play your body simply black and white, oh no.
His hands will destroy you; each and every muscle movement will have you on edge and by the time the decrescendo drains the flood in your mind, it will be too late.