We didn’t just break;
We shattered.

Smashed irreparably into fragments.

I cannot conceive that time will grind
The shards of us to sand.

Don’t sweat the big stuff

Don’t sweat the big stuff.
It’s probably fine and you’re doing fine.
You’re probably doing better than fine.
You’re probably doing great.
Even if it doesn’t feel fine–
It’s fine.
Don’t sweat the big stuff.
Don’t sweat the small stuff either.
But the big stuff?–
No, definitely don’t sweat that.


Ideas that rhyme are probably the best ideas.
Is there any concept too complex to be expressed in rhyming couplets?

The universe is very large.
We’re still not sure who’s in charge.

I love you a lot but it hurts a lot too;
The pain is worth it for the pleasure of you.

If you want a pet rabbit you have to buy two
Because they get lonely despite living with you.

I don’t know if there’s a god that lives in the sky
But it’s good to be good– search for how, not for why.

Some lives are long and for some the time flies
Any which way, everyone dies.

Money is important but it’s not the main thing.
Pennies buy independence but greed is a sin.

When building a building best to start from the ground.
The roof goes on top and the walls go around.

If you need any more advice, just let me know.

Where do all the squirrels go?

Where do all the squirrels go?
Do they sleep in beds?
Do they nest up in the trees
Where leaves protect their heads?
Do they hide near river banks
And burrow in the mud?
Do they hunker down in caves
With campfires made of wood?

I don’t know where the squirrels go
But I hope that they are well.
I hope that they feel safe and warm
Throughout this chilly spell.


I could define today
As bare toes burrowing
In a plush sun-warmed meadow.

Instead I ruminate
On uneasy encounters
With steaming land mines of manure.

If you’re enjoying my work, would you consider following me on Twitter because I’d love to share more with you?

The problem is sandwiches

My problem has always been sandwiches.

Eight-years-old, explaining to my mum that love is in sandwiches;
That you really know someone loves you if they cut your sandwich into quarters.
Not halves.
Love was the effort in that extra cut.

Eight-years-old, already accustomed to quantifying love
In sandwiches.
Loved more or less each day
By butter spread to edges and cheese thinly sliced.

My mother did not know to show love in this way
Until I told her.

Eight-years-old, I gifted her the guilt of sandwiches.
Knowing now the importance I’d ascribed to this arbitrary detail,
Her thoughts filled with years of sandwiches.
Each sandwich that followed cut precisely into squares.

Growing older, I became embarrassed
Of her delicately quartered sandwiches;
Forgot that extra cut was love.
Too self-conscious, I shouted at her to stop. The other kids had halves.

Now, an adult, I make my own lunch.
Sometimes sandwiches on simple days.

Now an adult,
I still make the same mistakes.