“For the most important type of love is love for oneself and only you can hear all of your beautiful verses that never got to see the light of the day.”

Oh, how I wish you were here bathing in the silky sheets of my dreams, your lips on mine a flame and wine smoke in the air clouds filled with thoughts oh, how I long for your skin and touch.

When the grass turns brown nobody seems to care. It’s just temporary, they say yet I can feel it will stay and stay.

From time to time, I would like to cut off all the strings and lines that conclude that ridiculous puppet show they call life.

I cried and cried and cried having Realized that the beauty of my soul was being neglected by nobody else but myself.

And I try, I so try to fit everywhere, with everyone to be neutral, to be good and with all that, I lose myself. I lose the truest layer of all.

I feel all that, your touch your presence your breath but can’t tell if its you I’m looking at.

Yet now as we grow older why must we be frightened of being tranquil?

We have to remember to do small things every single day and minute for sometimes love is simply not enough to fill our cup.

How is it possible that with one stare I’m in flames and no fire extinguisher shall help me? and so here I stand a tree burning from inside out of love from you.

This feeling in my chest is telling me to stay to do as I should, to be where I should but my mind is telling me to go away.

Even on the darkest days the sun still rises.

A feeling deliciously bitter lingers on my tongue. It’s sharp relish urges me to keep my mouth shut and my conscience clear. Though how can one act so when one’s veins are stuffed with what’s not said before?

We laid in bed with our hands tied, talked about love and clear, summer skies.

Each and every bad seed counts, for even if they don’t survive or grow too beautifully, a bad seed allows you to re-evalutate the others and appreciate them even more.

I cried today and I cried yesterday, Salty tears rushing down. My face fastened breaths, palms in sweat and the unbearable guilt of my being.

Everyday I am finding neverland in your touch just a little bit more than the day before.

I was raised to believe that religion is a beautiful thing, but it’s fiction.

Beauty cannot be recognized with a cursory glance.

Gardens are not made by singing ‘Oh, how beautiful,’ and sitting in the shade.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonny wee thing, This sweet wee wife o’ mine.

I’m very attached to movie theaters and I love going to them. Nothing will ever replace that. It’s very romantic and beautiful. I used to want to live inside of one, with a bathtub, a bike and a bed, and just watch movies.

Do as the beautiful woman: see to your figure and your petticoats. Though, of course, I am not speaking literally.

Beauty is not, as fond men misdeem, an outward show of things that only seem.

A work of art is not a matter of thinking beautiful thoughts or experiencing tender emotions , but of intelligence, skill, taste, proportion, knowledge, discipline and industry; especially discipline.