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I have been covered in easy kisses from uneasy lips, and I know I smell weary again.

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I think you were my taste of heaven after a lifetime of eating hell.
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Sometimes love is nothing more than a sticky web; illusions spun, from clever minds and bitter hearts.
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Whatever it is that stirs your soul listen to that. Everything else is just noise.
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I could lose myself in you or die blissfully, trying.
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And now I wander. Forever searching for the pieces of me I should have never given away.
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There is no greater power than that of the sun, the moon, and a woman who knows her worth.
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I write because suicide is no longer an option.
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Poetry is the loveliest art. It has a wretched way of revealing our own character when we think we are judging the poets.
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Be patient with me, dear heart. The art of loving is a peculiar business when one has spent an eternity hating themselves.
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Oh my darling, you mustn’t fill up on memories alone, there is heartache and regret yet to be served.
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I like my soul when it touches yours; winter turns to summer and my nightmares become dreams.
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I have God in my words and the devil in my ear, and a sister who keeps telling me to find my magic.
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The tide has pulled the storm from my soul again. But in all that is right or wrong and pure, there is you, and your stunning ability to blur the lines and just be.
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Be bold, child. You are rare and you are brazen light.
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I drink to the ones that can sit with their souls and not wish for sleep and the nightmares it brings.
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I will not force a pretty smile upon my face to please eyes that no longer see me.
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