“Poem is a phoenix, whose wings are painted in the colors of nostalgia.”

You’re breathed all over the walls of my lungs and I don’t know how to breathe you out.

Your name landed on my lips like december snow and slept there forever like a baby.

You can always wear armor of your smile as a remedy for this world full of damaged souls.

Music is a weed, we all fallen souls are high on.

Ever since I met you, love wore the shade of your eyes.

When she’s drenched in agony and soaked in pain, her smile holds the art this world is dying to learn.

Unlike our flesh and bones, our souls always share a common religion. The religion of art.

Her aura was warm and I was a naive sunflower, leaning towards her.

You can see heaven or earth in her pupils when she’s smiling, and happy for real.

I hope my poem touches your soul and tickles your feet. As it is a river, river of my molten heartbeats.

Death is the mercy of life on us.

Let me be a poem freely hung in your diary. Like the moon, on the night sky.

Your eyes looking into mine, this is how two eclipses collide.

Darling, do not teach your stars to shine. Teach them how to embrace the darkness.

He’s shy, he talks to her only. She’s bold, she listens to him only.

She’s never silent, you can always listen her soul speaking the tongue of poetry.

Attitude is the mind’s paintbrush; it can color any situation.

The standard progressive approach of the moment is to mix color-conscious moral invective with color-blind public policy.

Color is crucial in painting, but it is very hard to talk about.

Major problem for Black women, and all people of color, when we are challenged to oppose anti-Semitism, is our profound skepticism that white people can actually be oppressed.

An unsegregated America might see poverty, and all its effects, spread across the country with no particular bias toward skin color. Instead, the concentration of poverty has been paired with a concentration of melanin.

I really believe that no matter how old people get, they tend to change in certain ways depending on how people treat them – they change their colors.

Matisse did neither. He clashed his colours together like cymbals and the effect was like a lullaby.

I kind of do the drawing with the painting in mind, but it’s very hard to guess at a size or a color and the colors around it and what it will really look like. It’s only a guess at the beginning, and then I try to refine it.