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

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.

She is handpicked by nature to bleed. Look, how she makes pain bow down and plead.

I wanted peace, they gave me silence.

Once the sky dreamt of kissing the earth and everyone called it horizon.

I hope this pain never eases and these wounds never heal. That’s how you keep lingering in scars, underneath my skin.

Night is a song, moon and sad people can sing along.

Worship her for the way she rolls her sleeves up and hums the silence of healing.

Poetry is an eulogy, sung for hope and love.

Rest your head on his shoulder more often. Earth blushes when a snowflake gently dozes off on it.

A poet is the most beautiful poem, never read out loud by anyone.

When god created woman, he was introspecting himself after falling in love.

Art is the sound of a human dying to be an immortal artist.

Love to the fullest. Either you’ll live for eternity or die as a poet.

She was hidden, drenched in darkness. He held her hand and called her luna.

I started painting the touch of your voice, and ended up writing a love song.

If you read, you’ll judge.

Though my father was Norwegian, he always wrote his diaries in perfect English.

Painting is just another way of keeping a diary.

I paint the way some people write an autobiography. The paintings, finished or not, are the pages from my diary.

The reason for my starting a diary is that I have no real friend.

Writing in a diary is a really strange experience for someone like me.

I always say, keep a diary and someday it’ll keep you.

I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.