Anne Morriss, A Starbucks customer from New York City. She describes herself as an “organization builder, restless American citizen, optimist.”

The irony of commitment is that it’s deeply liberating - in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.

I am a shadow, my act is that of the follower. I dance in your wake and sing your praises when you're feeling slightly lost. I am a jay bird, I skip across the morning dew and rest outside your window until you're tossing and turning with morning grog. I'm your morning paper - go on, count the newest death toll. I'm the dust beneath your boots and the sound of "your barbaric yawp", I am the hills that you've metaphorically climbed and the worst joke you've heard in the best of company. I'm in everything and I feel like the owner of nothing - I am lacking, I am yearning, I am giving away all the things that leave me feeling incomplete. I'm a wanderer, the hiss in the back of your mind that refuses to let you settle. I'm a pusher, a fighter, an excuse for all the malicious thoughts that cloud your mind when that particular individual passes you. I'm the cracks beneath the pavement that plague your superstitutious tendencies, following you throughout the day after you've stepped across and over and finally on top of me - accidentally. I'm an accident, I'm a beautiful accident with everything to offer and nowhere in mind.

lull; storm.

She pretended it was lace, that she was tracing the letter of an invitation to the greatest party anyone had ever thrown. Jay Gatsby would be put to shame, her imagination mused. In truth, it was the coarse paper of a cheaply constructed funeral invitation. She'd get dressed up nonetheless, burn it later and pretend she'd been worth a better announcement. Here lies all my hopes and dreams, the actual friend disappeared from her mind and was replaced with what her life should've been.

cozy up to me, let's see who can spit furthest.

Turn the page. Rip it out. Break the glass. Crash. Hear the crackle of the thunder? Pop snicker break boom rattle - EVERYTHING IS FALLING APART! - my head is caving in caving in swallowingmewhole I'm screaming tearing falling wearing dying gone gone gone!

I LIKE TO SCREAM AT TRAFFIC LIGHTS WHEN RED FEELS TOO SILENT.

(walking) nightmare on elm.

Sauntering off after last kisses laid on rosy cheeks, bodies scatter through out the city and fill the streets. Some leave by sea to make the journey home while shadows of lovers wait helplessly on docks, willing themselves to turn and walk away. What's gone is gone and I am inclined to believe it will remain so, Moon states as both fact and grievance. We are inclined to agree, whisper the Stars. Go home, Shadows, go home. By the time the shadows find their voice, the night itself has gone to bed. They whisper to Nothing, We've lost our way. Not surprisingly, Nothing has nothing to say in return.

sweet sundancer.

your laughter dances as a flame before my eyes, laced in easy confidence. dance for me, dance for me, the command comes in a melody i did not know you had in you. my lips part for the sake of refusal but your ears have swallowed themselves and hidden in your hair. do not listen and you will hear no disappointments, shouts the cynic that lives behind your eyes. again you say dance, so i do. and i dance until i'm skipping and i skip until i'm jogging and i jog until i'm running and i run as far away from you as i can, swept up by the wind and pretending that if i just extend my arms i could fly. but there is your laughter, following me as a smoke cloud that will always fill my lungs.

fallen snow angels.

a stranded bird who has no wing - a music box that can not sing. your heart is a landing strip and i make no apologies for recklessness. been so long since i have slept, care to have a seat and loan me your dreams?

i'll be buried in energy drink cans and shopping bags, tapping away to the ticking of a clock that's reminding me i do not sleep enough and scraping along the empty plates that i should have filled with nutrition. my heart will explode with caffeine and cynicism; you taste tart. why so bitter?, the beatles will complain.