“Bitter sweet rose her thorns pierce every bone, but her lustful petals fall like bandaids for bleeding sores.”

I’m like a lost bird. My wings are not broken, but my heart is. Love always kept me flying. But now, love is what keeps me still.

Sometimes our greatest strength is our greatest weakness sometimes to love is to fall.

I’ve painted stars around tears that I’ve cried. And now my pain is a galaxy and every star has a name and every name feels like pain and you’re every star.

The sun never gets tired of kissing the sky, goodnight. And my heart will never tire of a love, like that.

She fades away falls behind the curtain of the night and retreats beyond the darkness as though she is gone for good. Yet, she always returns. And so does, love.

Snow relies on branches much like I rely on love but snow knows how to let go and I know how much it hurts.

Dawn breaks and this heart breaks, too. Yet the sun continues to rise and this heart of mine knows only of the journey down, like an eclipse of the heart.

Pain made me grow in the most unexpected places. And now I know what it feels like to be a wildflower.

I wish for a world where our hearts could be seen on the outside and we acred more about what our love looked like than our faces.

I am not scared of what I may find within the darkness of this forest line. But I do fear what the wild may find in me. I do fear that kind of vulnerability.

It was meant to be just rain, that went away. Yet we became the storm, of yesterday.

Wouldn’t it be a different world if love passed as freely through us as money passes through hands.

We are much like the nights sky, the big things draw our attention. But its the little things that really light us up.

I’m holding onto you, like a cloud holds rain. Knowing at some point I must let go. But waiting for the perfect storm, that will make it so much easier.

Sometimes my lion will try to roar back when I flee. But its my butterfly that keeps me silent when I leave.

You’re the crescent moon cradling all theses shadows of me teach me how to shine so there’s no distance between you and I.

The blood of the just will be demanded of London, burnt by fire in the year ’66. The ancient Lady will fall from her high place, and many of the same sect will be killed.

Our story bleeds from my eyes until I cannot tell the stars from streetlights.

Poetry? That’s easy. I just cut the vein, and let it bleed.

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”.

I still pick at these memories of you; I pick them until they bleed.

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

I swear if I were to rip myself open, it wouldn’t be blood that poured out of me, it would be him.

Somebody may beat me, but they are going to have to bleed to do it.