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

She was a broken sky, where stars never shine and butterflies die.

She wanted love. So I fed her, inch by inch.

She’s like turning on the radio and hearing a brand new song.

We are only beautiful monsters, dreaming of god.

She’s just a girl. But her pussy makes me see god.

I gave her address to my soul. Ans she fucked the mailman.

I liked her simplicity. She wanted coffee and orgasms.

In an endless universe, she needed space.

I messed up a lot of things. I called it poetry.

Overcoming guilt, its the first step to doing it again.

Sometimes there are no words. Sometimes, it’s just poetry.

I wake to find her there, with glowing eyes and tangled hair. She is my sunrise.

Her memory still lingers, like a cockroach in my heart.

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.

I want to be different. If everyone is wearing black, I want to be wearing red.

The problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color-line, — the relation of the darker to the lighter races of men in Asia and Africa, in America and the islands of the sea.

Bat in hand, helmet on, pads on gloves on, shoes on: I am complete.

I love to experiment with my looks and dresses on and off the court because I love to turn out very well. But, I must add here that just good-looking athletes can’t do anything for their sport.

Look at the world with the vision of peace, love, and compassion. Then the whole world will appear loving and peaceful.

Nothing is easy in cricket. Maybe when you watch it on TV, it looks easy. But it is not. You have to use your brain and time the ball.

You can get by on charm for about 15 minutes. After that, you better know something.

It doesn’t matter to me how I look on screen. What matters to me is how I connect with the audience.