“Meet me under the moon so we can chase stars together.”

She has one hell of a dark soul, but damn, it’s so full of light.

I have no room for monsters and cowards claiming to be something they’re not, who lie to get what they want.

If you’re afraid of a little fire. She may not be the one for you.

Old soul, Poet’s heart, Warrior’s mind.

I’m a tangled mess of wild and I don’t want to be unraveled. I like me this way.

He wasn’t like a moth attracted to her flame. He was like a vampire in love with her eternal darkness.

My eyes saw you, but damn, did my soul feel you.

We are all just humans trying to survive in this crazy world, in the spaces between birth and death.

I am inspired by many, but am in competition with only myself.

Sometimes she’s the gentle rain caressing you softly. Sometimes she’s the hurricane loving you madly.

Your darkness is hauntingly beautiful. Mesmerizing.

While you were busy working on your ego, she was busy working on her soul.

Don’t compare her to sunshine and roses when she’s clearly orchids and moonlight.

I have wolf blood and wolf bones. Don’t expect me to graze with sheep.

I do not trust anyone who hides in the light and denies darkness exists.

When the world is too much create your own. I do it every day.

When you’re taught to love everyone, to love your enemies, then what value does that place on love?

You don’t know how to talk to people you don’t like. Don’t love, really. You can’t live in the world with such strong likes and dislikes.

Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.

In my family, there was not an abundance of wealth, but there was an abundance of love. So there was always humor, and there was joy and there was comfort and there was this environment just to have a good time.

I will greet this day with love in my heart. For this is the greatest secret of success in all ventures. Muscles can split a shield and even destroy life itself but only the unseen power of love can open the hearts of man.

In art as in love, instinct is enough.

If it makes you happy, it doesn’t have to make sense to others.

All the good writers of confessions, from Augustine onwards, are men who are still a little in love with their sins.