“I hope you think of me during every thunderstorm.”

Leave me like you mean it. My heart can’t keep waiting for you.

The future belongs to those who are brave enough to speak up about things that matter.

I think I’ll always remember your birthday and the way you took your coffee because they’ll forever be pieces of you I cannot burn.

We all show our true colors eventually – mine is dark and firesome red. I bet I burned you. I don’t expect to see you soon.

Faded secrets and old voices have built towns inside my heart. Thats were we still meet.

The sun touched your skin with innocent delicacy as if you were a work of out that was made to be admired deeply.

The sky was crying so I wiped away her tears, just like all the times she did the same me.

Each time I fall back in love with myself, I leave my pen and paper behind. It isn’t personal, or maybe it is. I just a always thought that poetry was for the hurting.

I woke up this morning and for once, I had no desire to drink my morning coffee. Is that how it felt for you to wake up and never return?

In a dream like haze, the moment you left still spins on repeat like a broken record.

You don’t deserve my poetry. I hate that I give you that satisfaction still.

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.

Other people’s ideas of us are dependent largely on what they’ve hoped for.

What I think we need to do is infuse everyday and every action with the kind of values we hope will be in the future, with kindness, with nurturing, with dreams, ambition, using your talents, not resorting to violence, other forms of conflict resolution, with humor, with poetry, with music.

It is the habit of mankind to entrust to careless hope what they long for, and to use sovereign reason to thrust aside what they do not desire.

Still hope leads men to venture; and no one ever yet put himself in peril without the inward conviction that he would succeed in his design.

O tender yearning, sweet hoping! The golden time of first love! The eye sees the open heaven, The heart is intoxicated with bliss; O that the beautiful time of young love Could remain green forever.

By the year 2000 we will, I hope, raise our children to believe in human potential, not God.

Hope is a very unruly emotion.

Each say following another, either hastening or putting off our death–what pleasure does it bring? I count that man worthless whois cheered by empty hopes. No, a noble man must either live or die well.