“Melancholy- My longest of lost lovers has returned to dance with me Again I loved him; intensely.”

They build ladders from my spine and they climb and they fall and they break me, and they climb again.

Sometimes love is nothing more than a sticky web; illusions spun, from clever minds and bitter hearts.

There is no greater power than that of the sun, the moon, and a woman who knows her worth.

I have God in my words and the devil in my ear, and a sister who keeps telling me to find my magic.

You load your words as I bare my chest, and this will be the most beautiful death.

Poetry is the loveliest art. It has a wretched way of revealing our own character when we think we are judging the poets.

I have known love and I have known loss, but in the end, they both looked a lot like you.

I write because suicide is no longer an option.

Too many times I have given this heart away, I am afraid it is no longer mine.

I think I saw you again in the moonlight tonight, and I swear I could taste the hints of it alll.

On paper I have killed you a thousand times but my heart disregards clever words.

He left love letters at my door, and a chalk outline on the highway.

How recklessly we turn from strangers and blindly back to lovers, to nothing.

He was all dangerous eyes and beautiful lies, but I ached. for him to lie to me some more.

Some souls were never meant to be content.

I like you here, between commas, where the only thing you can break now, is my lines.

I do a first draft as passionately and as quickly as I can. I believe a story is valid only when it’s immediate and passionate, when it dances out of your subconscious. If you interfere in any way, you destroy it.

She danced in the moonlight knowing they shared the same song.

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

She spoke with so much hope, the future dancing on her lips like a flame.

Double up, baby. Your lips are the song and the dance floor is our bed.

Always remember, you will live, you will love, you will dance again.

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learned to dance.

Stars are always dancing. Sometimes they dance twinkling away with the rhythm of your joyful heart and sometimes they dance without movement to embrace your heartache as if frozen sculptures of open-armed sadness.