“You were the flame that ignited in the presence of my air, But that didn’t mean our fire wouldn’t starve in the cold of our reality.”

In places where everyone is beautiful, i am tempted to toy with my ugly.

We have to be strong, for the ones that came before us, and the ones who are yet to come.

One defeat does not define you.

So be bold, run free and live like poetry.

So we danced in the rain and woke to the haze of a sunrise painted in honey.

So i swept our stardust under the rug, and discovered a magic of my own.

Free spirit, The world is yours.

The longer you sit in the field, forcing fragile stalks together, the more you value the loops, the links that stay. And the less you miss the ones that snap and blow away.

Even when your tears have soaked through the last pages of your book, the sun will dry them and illuminate every word of your story.

So keep rowing against the current, no one ever made an epic voyage through smooth sailing.

You lit a flame in me that could start wildfires.

I pined for the whole of you, but all I ever got was half. I waited and gave you twice of me-yet still it wasn’t enough.

The silence was broken with the music of your pain, but with every note i could see a part of you healing.

Whiskey lips and sunset trips to places we always spoke of, wind in hair we had no care for what tomorrow was made of.

I believed in the magic we made, but you were the magician and i was merely your puppet on stage.

Why not accept your beautiful mess? and care a little less?

I don’t believe in conspiracy theories. I’m just a cold-blooded investigator.

To rise after a fall, oh what an idea to haul. What you think would hold you, More often than not, turns your white soul into cold blue.

This cruel world fails to embrace the beauty of tender souls and then wonders why everyone turns cold?

If there be light, then there is darkness; if cold, heat; if height, depth; if solid, fluid; if hard, soft; if rough, smooth; if calm, tempest; if prosperity, adversity; if life, death.

Once more I am the silent one who came out of the distance wrapped in cold rain and bells: I owe to earth’s pure death the will to sprout.

Superpower’ is something which we used during the cold war time.

Don’t put me in the condition where I have to show how cold my heart can get.

Often a cold shudder has run through me, and I have asked myself whether I may have not devoted myself to a fantasy.