“I learned to make art with my broken heart.”

Your name still tastes like poison in my mouth.

Soft and sweet and wrapped around your fingertips.

I have so much love to give even with these daggers still stuck in my heart.

I am still weighed down by unspeakable heaviness- It follows like shadow currents.

I thought time would heal my broken heart, but its been forever since I fell in love and I’m scared that you took pieces of me that can’t be replaced.

Be here with me tonight, and lets sing the saddest moon song there ever was.

He grabbed my hand as the flames licked at my feet and the devil and I danced.

A place where our stories are rewritten, and six degrees of separation no longer troubles us.

My mother always told me that love is like a plant, but she never prepared me for the realization that too much love towards the wrong person can drown your heart until it rots.

I laugh and I cry and I reason on until the late night, but I never feel the urge to call you. The person that I once knew is forever frozen in time.

Spill yourself onto the page with ink and a half healed heart and watch the words blossom.

I like to think of myself as the sun, but it gets really lonely all the way out here especially when everything I try to touch burns.

I know I write too many love poems, and perhaps this is me admitting that the love inside me is still there somewhere, stagnant – but its a cruel addiction. I need a intervention.

There was a time when I loved you too much that it made me feel the darkest shades of blue. It’s been years now, but I’m seeing life in other colors again.

A sea of jumbled emotions I had longed to live again, a feeling that no metaphor could match.

There were still embers scattered around me from the bridges I have burned. I wonder if they can feel it too. The space between us lingering like a scarlet letter, I’m learning how to love again.

We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth at least the truth that is given us to understand. The artist must know the manner whereby to convince others of the truthfulness of his lies.

The art of art is simplicity.

Love isn’t an emotion or an instinct – it’s an art.

Art is the proper task of life.

The arts community still has a long lasting cynicism of the importance, or the artistic value, of comedy. Comedy is just farting about for money.

The essence of fighting is the art of moving at the right time.

Excellence is an art won by training and habituation.

Any work of art must first of all tell a story.