“In my dreams you conjure me like a spell in the night. Let us haunt one another with uneasy peace, and die burning alive.”

You’re preserved inside of me; cadaversque. I both acquiesce and atrophy because of it.

As if flesh and skin and hands are any match for bullets. As if bones won’t crack in hails of powder and lead. As if rivers of blood are not the direct result of trigger fingers that bend but do not break on “bad days”.

Love me until oblivion paints your portraits on my eyelids, sinking by eons into distance that never separates us.

I don’t know how to put my love down, or to keep holding too much of it.

Your darkness does not scare me, nor will I run from you; like a star, I’m falling for the phases of your moon.

We usually seek the divine in the sky, But religion is best found on the ground. Nature is our true creator.

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 pressed the dress to my nose, and found what was left of your ghost. It was then that I remembered how to cry.

To the oppressed with no seat on the table; dreaming of change and better days, I will pull up a chair, and light fires in your name.

I was looking for you in all the places our love used to be. When all along I should have been looking for me.

Some days, my mind will still be in prison, but I will live in spite of it. I unlearn how to swim; I trade my gills for lungs and wings.

I would throw down roots with you if I ever had the chance. We’d grow strong in tender shoots, and bloom in burning hands.

Creatives are neither born nor created. They are activated.

The glint of mischief in your eyes is the flint in my matchstick. Striking; always this close to igniting.

The search for external sources is nothing compared to internal forces.

Our memories lurch to a reluctant halt in their funeral march, so I can pour salt over them one last time.

When I am reading a book, whether wise or silly, it seems to me to be alive and talking to me.

Let us come alive to the splendor that is all around us and see the beauty in ordinary things.

All the dreams you planted in my eyes, will someday haunt you alive.

He had no strength for any other war than his own solitary struggle to keep alive.

Bittersweet memories dancing in the pupils of my hollowed out eyes, these sugar-coated recollections attempt to latch onto me ultimately eating me alive.

Rest assured, as long as I am alive any book purporting to be with my cooperation is a falsehood.

I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.

The fields have eyes, and the woods have ears.