“She was just my kind of poetry.”

She is still healing in a quiet way.

In his eyes she was both poetry and prose.

Her eyes made me feel better.

I’m a poet, a sad poet, who wrote about her, always and forever.

The quiet hearts speaks the loudest prayer, hoping someone would hear.

Some of the magical moments in our life are from the smallest moments.

There were things that he wanted to write on paper, about everything he couldn’t tell her.

Sometimes, we express our words through writing, even though it needs to be spoken.

Losing her was plenty.

No matter what I do I’m still not the best writer for you.

I still see you in my dreams, teasing my feelings and damaging my heart.

You’re rare, which some people don’t care, but I do.

The words that appeared from my Ink where that could describe my love for you.

As my heart began to melt this is what your Emerald eyes do to me.

This time I’ll be better for myself, at least for myself.

I love you but your eyes didn’t see my worth

Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.

Give a little kindness, everyone houses some kind of pain.

Maturity is willing to acknowledge what you are willing to shift, learn or give to create the kind of relationship you want.

There’s always a bittersweet kind of thing, but I feel like everything had to work out the way it is. Everything that had to happen, happened.

The artist is a kind of prison from which the works of art escape.

Don’t matter how much money you got, there’s only two kinds of people: there’s saved people and there’s lost people.

Anybody who has been seriously engaged in scientific work of any kind realizes that over the entrance to the gates of the temple of science are written the words: ‘Ye must have faith.’

There is no credulity so eager and blind as the credulity of covetousness, which, in its universal extent, measures the moral misery and the intellectual destitution of mankind.