“Your presence is poetic, mysterious and deep. If you don’t mind I’d like to read you; uncover the dirty secrets hidden within your pages and fill that missing space between your sheets.”

Grasping for empty promises creating hazards in the dark. Leaving a mess we can’t clean up all in the name of love.

Lightening lover I wonder if you know you’re the reason why I’m always chasing the storm.

We kiss like fire and wind drifting, into the woods of our unspoken sins.

Tell me I’m your sweet thing so I can simmer in sweet dreams tonight.

I hope you get everything you pray for. I just pray it isn’t me.

I kiss the skies, set the sun in my eyes and swallow up the streams. I swear to god, I only feel alive in my most ludricious dreams.

Words have taken hostage of my tongue. All the things I’m too afraid to say collect like volcanic ash in my lungs. Vulnerabilities bleed on paper but leave my mouth – never.

I write to feel closer to you.

All my friends tell me I need to pull through. But I can’t for I am lost in the sea of you.

I get so lost in your midnight eyes I forget we’re running out of time.

Lost in the space between friend and lover. I am and none of these things.

I long for connection but speak only with your reflection.

I was on fire. You didn’t even hesitate stepping into the flames. After tonight I am certain all the neighbors know your name.

You want to taste my ruby lips but fear they’ll leave a mark. Loving you is trespassing, forbidden access to an insecure heart.

You are the thunderstorm warning and I’m dancing in acid rain.

The night is wine and we’re the stars.

Before you go to bed; thank god for you still have a bed.

When I was a child, I used to fear monsters under the bed. I have since learned that most monsters are found within. And they are always worth fighting.

I find I can get so much done between midnight and 4 a.m. Everything is quiet, no one is disturbing me, and if I go to bed then, I just lie awake thinking of ideas. They are very creative hours for me. One night a week I crash out, though.

The bed was the canvas, we were the art.

I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won.

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying.

And when thou art weary I’ll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.

Keep a note pad and pencil on your bedside table. Million-dollar ideas sometimes strike at 3 A.M.