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My Worst Crime It  may be my words but they are not my stories.

I steal pieces of people’s lives.

I think everyone has a story to tell. Often, those stories are muddled with routine forced by the need to survive. That’s why people miss the miracles they make.

I thirst for these miracles. I seek it. I wait for it.

Patiently, and often, obsessively, I watch them love and let go
… laugh and pine
… hope and surrender
… give and create

I turn their pains into victories
I transform their realities into imagination.
I peel their days to fine fragments of unrecognizable memories

I look for words to turn their souls into stories...

None of which will ever be good enough to capture the poetry of their lives


