Best 41 quotes of Buddy Wakefield on MyQuotes

...all these kids you can't seem to make sense of would stop holding you so far off the edge of your seats if you'd start holding yourselves to the promises you make. We know you're not perfect, because we're not. And I know I'm not perfect, but I believe I was meant to be.

A trajectory of misery – at this point – seems intentional. We have all the information we need to see clearly. We are no longer unaware toddlers on the landscape of consciousness. It is no longer cute to crap ourselves.

But I still show up for gentleman practice in the company of lead dancers, hoping their grace will get stuck in my shoes.

Even good hearts know how to turn bad touch and genocide into clichés just to make room for more comfort.

Everybody knows that smiling is for little girls, the gays and certain kinds of fish who are smiling by accident.

Every moment is a brand new baby, Baby. Every vow is a brave new voice.

Forte is French… for blanket fort.

Hearts don't break, y'all. They bruise and get better.

How honest is it that we drink until we are dehydrated?

I am standing like shoe polish on an overstocked shelf hoping that one day someone will pick me to make things better.

I choose to politely ask myself to step aside if I am in my own way. If I do not get out of my way, I choose to call a friend who will have me removed.

I don't care to be good, Sheriff. I care to be whole.

If we really do get what we give then I give up, so I can get up.

If we were created in God’s image, then when God was a child he smushed fire ants with his fingertips and avoided tough questions.

If you've never been rocked back by the presence of purpose this poem is too soon for you. Return to your mediocrity, plug it into an amplifier and rethink yourself.

I'm ready to kill something. I'll probably only get as far as my brain cells, but I am going to kill them.

I should have told You before talking in terms of Forever that any given day wears me out and works me sour, that there are nights when the sky is so clear I stand obnoxious underneath it begging for the stars to shoot at me just so I can feel at Home.

I would fall in love with you if you would beat these people out of me.

Knowing me is easy. You can still twist your hair and feel silly. Look up the word tacky and have a salad. But when we're together you pull bread apart with your fingers into bites sometimes so small I gotta remind you, Peach, it is okay to be hungry.

Make love to me like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.

...others, with halos shaped like rollercoasters you'd stand in line to ride twice.

Stop congregating in the valley just because an echo sounds good when it agrees with itself.

Stop inviting walls into wide open spaces.

The best songs are the ones about Georgia, even though I've never been there. It's the only place I still believe in Jesus.

The first time my town saw the sky it sucker-punched us in the throat, left us breathless, said, I'm gonna keep you awake some nights without touching you. You'll make it up, the pain, you always do.

The future gets no say in who we are.

There is a point when tears don't work to wash things away anymore. Grabbing for breath has now broken my fingers.

There was a typewriter buried alive in that horse, the one I road to get out of the flood.

The truth is that this universe is gassy and unpredictable. It still has not said excuse me for The Big Bang. Sometimes we expect too much instead of practicing enough or receiving in us just the right answer. You, the Staggering Answer

We can stick anything into the fog and make it look like a ghost.

We were never tragedies. We were emergencies. You go ahead, call 9-1-1. Tell them I'm havin' a fantastic time.

What children and the landing of a plane most have in common is that they are best made by a line drive of pilot lights guided through a single tambourine across the day we met in a field of wet metal hands on The Gospel of Lightning.

What paper planes and empty seats most have in common is that they are best made by children still learning how to ride things out.

You are the home I point to that lives in my chest.

You can call me an angry ghost when I'm gone, or laugh into my disposition. But my mom will still see me as her wide-eyed wanderer out behind the garage inventing ways to fend off dog attacks that will probably never happen.

You're a free-standing landing pad held together by choir claps.

You're not the only piece of patchwork birds can pull worms from.

And if we really do get what we give, then I give up, so I can get up

It’s just that I coulda swore you had sung me a love song back there and that you meant it but I guess sometimes people just chew with their mouth open

This is an apology letter to the both of us for how long it took me to let things go. It was not my intention to make such a production of the emptiness between us playing tuba on the tombstone of a soprano to try and keep some dead singer’s perspective alive. It’s just that I coulda swore you had sung me a love song back there and that you meant it but I guess sometimes people just chew with their mouth open so I ate ear plugs alive with my throat hoping they’d get lodged deep enough inside the empty spots that I wouldn’t have to hear you leaving

We can stick anything into the fog and make it look like a ghost but tonight let us not become tragedies. We are not funeral homes with propane tanks in our windows, lookin’ like cemeteries. Cemeteries are just the Earth’s way of not letting go. Let go. Tonight let’s turn our silly wrists so far backwards the razor blades in our pencil tips can’t get a good angle on all that beauty inside. Step into this with your airplane parts. Move forward and repeat after me with your heart: “I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself.” Make love to me like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did. Go slow. I’m new to this. But I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping. I have realized that the moon did not have to be full for us to love it, that we are not tragedies stranded here beneath it, that if my heart really broke every time I fell from love I’d be able to offer you confetti by now. But hearts don’t break, y’all, they bruise and get better. We were never tragedies. We were emergencies. You call 9 – 1 – 1. Tell them I’m having a fantastic time.