“My arms grieve a love that took shape in the form of you.”

My arms ache to hold you how my heart already does.

I managed to build myself up only for you to knock me back down again.

The more that I learn I have found poetry to be less about love and more about survival.

I didn’t look to many for love I only ever wanted yours.

To be loved by a poet is to find love hidden in between the lines of many things.

He wraps me in seduction by penetrating my mind.

How can I let you go when my heart rests so peacefully in your arms.

It didn’t kill me when you left still, something within me died.

She’s the type of woman who will nurture your every need. The kind that once you enter you will never want to leave.

My ink-soaked heart could write your name across the sky a thousand times more than the stars that decorate the velvet night.

You flowed into me so delicately, like a beautiful twist of fate. I inspired you as you moved me in an alluring turn of phrase.

Don’t forget to erase every trace of me from your skin, You wouldn’t want the truth to show.

I’m not afraid of the chance at loving you, I’m only afraid of what it could do to me.

You can’t help when the pain heals as you can’t stop what the heart feels.

And though I owned you nothing I still gave you my everything.

Discovered deeply within the depths of much suffering came forth my love of poetry.

All broken relationships can be traced back to broken agreements.

I never yet feared those men who set a place apart in the middle of their cities where they gather to cheat one another and swear oaths which they break.

People say sticks and stones may break your bones, but names can never hurt you, but that’s not true. Words can hurt. They hurt me. Things were said to me that I still haven’t forgotten.

You can’t take no breaks.

Passion is always a mystery and unaccountable, and unfortunately there is no doubt that life does not spare its purest children; often it is just the most deserving people who cannot help loving those that destroy them.

God the Father’s a deep root; the Son’s the shoot that breaks into the world; the Spirit spreads the beauty & fragrance.

God bless us everyone, we’re broken people living under a loaded gun.

If this fame, which people call my lucky break, were to stop tomorrow, I shouldn’t care.