“With her, the world becomes art.”

True love is letting her know that her ass really does look fat in those jeans.

If there’s never been a restraining order, it ain’t love.

It wasn’t forever. But I loved her until I hated her.

She was only a collection of flaws and she was beautiful.

There’s a strange beauty in her. She shines like hell.

He opened her cages, and freed the things inside.

I’m wrong but I’m real.

Break me. Until there’s nothing left and I’ll be free.

She’s no rose. But in her I see the beauty of thorns.

There’s this thing that hurts inside me all the time. Because I know what’s coming.

Lets die. Alone. Like we always do.

Failures often become art. And art can never fail.

Summer looks the same. But last summer she loved me.

Poems are a nice way of saying fuck you.

Always falling but not for anything.

We search for meaning. And destroy it.

The artist and the photographer seek the mysteries and the adventure of experience in nature.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

With all art expression, when something is seen, it is a vivid experience, sudden, compelling, and inevitable.

Art is a nation’s most precious heritage. For it is in our works of art that we reveal to ourselves and to others the inner vision which guides us as a nation. And where there is no vision, the people perish.

Impression is not enough. Design, style, technique – these, too, are not enough. Art must reach further than impression or self-revelation .

I don’t know anybody who needs a critic to find out what art is.

I did a lot of sitting back and thinking about what I wanted for myself and what I wanted for my country: more unity, more support for the arts and more opportunities for young writers from marginalized groups.

My mother was the most creative, fantastic person and would come up with great things for us to do. She’d buy art supplies and all of us would sit around painting. I was lucky.