“Intrusive thoughts burn holes in my brain. I guess that’s why I’m so empty.”

I’m not asking that you take the bullet for me. I wish you’d shoot first.

Forever dreaming of a faraway place, where the sun melts my sorrows and blows kisses on my face.

This little black dress doesn’t hide imperfections. It shows off my soul.

Old habits die hard, so fill up my cup and let’s raise hell in heaven.

All smoke and mirrors, nothing concrete or real -Social Media

Consumed by darkness but drenched in warm morning sun. Life’s oxymoron.

Like water lies spill from my lips. Droplets of poison ready to kill.

Your body ebbs, flows, ripples, and glows like water. Don’t fear changing tides.

Vanilla ice cream melts down my wrist as my lips melt all over yours.

Shadows follow me the way a vulture stalks death. One small step ahead.

Twenty-six letters, infinite stories to tell, nothing comes to mind.

Double chin, Fat Thighs. Will you think about these things before your last breath?

Talk dirty to me like I’m a nun on her knees screaming hail Mary.

I wish the voices would pour from every orifice. Bleed from my bones and drain me of this illness.

Life gave me lemons, tequila, salt, and a knife. Death, you call the shots.

She was a siren, mythical and mystical but somehow still real.

He who has calmly reconciled his life to fate, and set proud death beneath his feet, can look fortune in the face, unbending both to good and bad; his countenance unconquered.

Think not I dread to see my spirit fly, Through the dark gates of fell mortality; Death has no terrors when the life is true; ‘Tis living ill that makes us fear to die.

If you look around, you can find a face of God in each thing, because He is not hidden in a church, in a mosque, or a synagogue, but everywhere. As there is no one who lives after seeing him, there is also no one dying after seeing him. Who finds Him, stays forever with him.

And no renown can render you well-known: For if you think that fame can lengthen life By mortal famousness immortalized, The day will come that takes your fame as well, And there a second death for you awaits.

What can my enemies do to me? My paradise is in my heart, it is with me wherever I go. To imprison me is to provide me with seclusion. To send me into exile is to send me away in the Path of Allah. And to kill me is to make me a martyr.

And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling cooped we live and die, Lift not your hands to It for help-for it As impotently moves as you or I

Every man must do two things alone; he must do his own believing and his own dying.

You know what I always say about basketball whenever anybody tried to tell me the Knicks are gonna be good: They’re old. Old people don’t get healthy. They die.