Family day at the gym, onstage, middle of the night.
What the suicide would've said had she known I reviewed her grades.
For whose sake did they cut the strings of the red puppeteer.
I smell her diapers from here.
In a dream of Banquos, Macbeth squeezes a collarbone to wake me up.
The picture that never gets thanked for smiling back.
Only one recommendation to go before the library opens a door for her.
Of the seven things that we are, more than three are our mothers.
Who has yet to study for her exams.
Only the little storms leave flowers on my stomach.
Whom the gods would destroy, they first flatter.
If we're talking happiness, I would've brought their bikes along.