“I think I’ve mastered the art, of taming my wild heart, now my heart doesn’t flutter, thinking about you.”

Your artful hands, hold my delicate heart, tenderly gaze at it, as if its an art.

Can you hear my silence? I’m screaming pretty damn loud.

Somedays I fear, I’ll run out of words.

Writers block grappled our souls, we fought back with our words.

Am I killing the kid in me, by strangling my curiosity?

I will never give up on you, from a person who treats like crap is not sweet. It’s toxic and you gotta run!

The opening chords of our rhapsody, lulled me into a state of bliss, as the glistening sunrise in your eyes, intoxicated my soul, drew me in.

I wish I had said no, the day you asked for my number, but I was young, dumb and numb, looking for a harbor of harmony, to mend my shattered soul.

How do you find words, when you’ve lost your soul? If every emotion you ever knew, you can’t feel them anymore.

If this was my last poem I’d dedicate it to myself.

Vibes change, Connections break.

Your eyes met mine, and we know our story, from beginning to the end, all things said and unsaid.

I opened the door to emptiness, traded my emotions for numbness.

You act like a cold cold man, frozen beyond repair, hardly uttering any word, action laced demeanor. Yet everything about you, from your ebony eyes, to your dazzling smile, makes me feel warm inside.

Paper and pen petrify me, for they pierce right through me, drawing deep blue blood, leaving me utterly cold.

Posts after posts I scroll, trying to find inspiration to write, or maybe just looking for a will, to kick away the laziness, and get off this state of mind, but nothing happens, as I scroll on and on, with the clock ticking, I scroll my life away.

I haven’t ever found any great writing on that wonderful and often unappreciated art form, the insult.

I know that my look is more “toothpaste model” as opposed to artsy, which sucks because I can play those roles.

Art’s greatest efforts are invariably a timid counterfeit of Nature.

From the neck up is where you win or lose the battle. It’s the art of war. You have to lock yourself in and strategise your mindset. That’s why boxers go to training camps: to shut down the noise and really zone in.

Art has no other object than to set aside the symbols of practical utility, the generalities that are conventionally and socially accepted, everything in fact which masks reality from us, in order to set us face to face with reality itself.

Happiness is a little bit of art on a sad day.

Art is not communicative, art is not reflexive. Art, science, philosophy are neither contemplative, neither reflexive, nor communicative. They are creative, that’s all.

If reality impacted directly on our senses and our consciousness, if we could have direct communication between the material world and ourselves, art would be unnecessary.