This is your room.
It’s a cell.
You can have everything you want except the key for the door.
If you ever get the key (which you won’t) stay here and use it to scrawl poetry into the wall, but don’t you dare call yourself a prisoner.
You are mad and you have to learn to speak without your voice digging tunnels to run through like a victim of yourself.
There are other heads, in other cells, holding out their ears for something that breaths quietly.
But you will turn them to the dark and they will want to chop off their arms for being within your reach.
Every colour you see is wet, colour dries nothing.
Your feet will need more faith if they are to carry you across the rust into the part of you that’s this dark and scratched up.
Create your own season and let it touch you, weather reports are useless here.
Tomorrow morning you will hear instructions, follow them until you’re somewhere warm.
You will see what you thought were walls was actually your perspective inspired by the lines between the last poem you grated into the air with your teeth.
Don’t let anyone see how the plot rattles in your head like marbles in a whisky bottle.
They will judge you and your sentence will just be another thing you can’t finish.
Love will one day become a type of grief and you won’t survive if it’s the only thing that feeds you.
Your parents were wrong; you can be wiser than them.
You will never fit your mother into words because words aren’t beautiful enough.
I will write until I lose God and find out I am a religion.
I just noticed there is a waiting room in my heart and there is no entrance.
Ask your Grandma to write you a letter about what it’s like to be young.
Chase the light out the sky; it only wants to criticize you.
Run up to the first person you see and tell them your eyes fell out their pocket.
Notice yourself reading this and then imagine you wasted your time writing it.
The best liar you will ever meet will make love look easy.
Count up to a high number, start at one and stop when you start to feel lonely, that’s the number of days you’ve walked the streets feeling like that.
Get on the Underground in the morning and smile just to be good at being different.
I was standing in a warehouse one night, the walls were pealing and the only light came from a projector that was playing a film about the dying art of shadows.
If there was any sense in my direction I’d stop here and let peace stand next to me in the dark and whisper something profound into the room.
I don’t want to be anything but a temple strong enough to handle love.
What would Lego men make of you?
If tears cried you do you think you’d taste like vinegar?
There are flowers left on the road side, they are dead, the flowers I mean. Does that imply the grievers have moved on or is it still too painful for them to keep some things alive?
How to be wise – observe animals in their habitat and surround yourself with older people and children – write down everything they say.
I have just walked passed a man sitting down in the street holding a cardboard cut out of himself. The sign of a good life is never cut from cardboard.
All the cold places I can think of are quiet.
Why did I feel nothing when I read a headline that said Children dead in a house fire?
I’d like to find the universe where trees chop down people and study people work instead of wood work.
Do not think too much about the words you say, the heart doesn’t think – it’s a beautifully stupid organ.
Get up and walk down the street and start a conversation with the first person you see that’s singing.
If every ear in the world went deaf would the human race become closer or would we isolate ourselves even more than we already do?
If you made friends with death do you think it would live for you?