“I do not know how to love gently. Devour me completely leaving no insecurities behind. Let me taste every drop of your devotion. Lets run like the wolves and never let go.”

You thought you could take advantage of my heart. But I’ve mastered revenge and made it an art.

Storms in his eyes, Fire in his heart, Lust in his touch, Tearing me apart.

Sometimes the angry sky rages before the bellowing tears spill.

I want to be his peace and his raging fire. His muse and every desire.

Have the courage to be afraid, because fear is a sign that you care deeply. If you care deeply enough, you will be brave enough.

Love is magic and magic is everywhere. You just need to open your heart to see it.

On my knees, lips slightly parted thirsty, ready for a strong stiff one. Make it neat I love the burn.

I’m suffocating on empty promises and twisted truths. I’m drowning in a bottomless pool of illusion.

I’m the fire that dances in the rain, I’m the love that lives in my heart. I’m the broken heart that crashes, I’m the phoenix rising from the ashes. I’m healing and scars, I’m the sun and all the stars.

Your smile keeps me longing for the taste of your lips pressed against my soul.

Insomnia. Restless soul. Long dark nights. Haunted heavy heart feels. Foggy.

Although you stood before me in all your tangible glory, your love evaporated like an illusion melting in my hands.

I’m the queen of broken hearts with a reign that’s sure to last.

She is dandelion wishes and watermelon kisses. He is tumultuous fire and venomous desire.

Love is my religion and let it use me to be the light on the darkest of nights.

Tainted with lies, toxic fire dancing in your eyes. Kisses like poison arrows aiming for the heart killing me softly. Toxic love is an art.

Beloved, all that is harsh and difficult I want for myself, and all that is gentle and sweet for thee.

Devotion to God is still a voluntary thing; hence the differences of attainment among Christians.

Can we today measure devotion to husband and children by our indifference to everything else?

The scrupulous and the just, the noble, humane, and devoted natures; the unselfish and the intelligent may begin a movement – but it passes away from them. They are not the leaders of a revolution. They are its victims.

One single act done with aridity of spirit is worth more than many done with feelings of devotion.

He who is devout to the Virgin Mother will certainly never be lost.

The words I speak, the things I do, let them be only, all for you.

Our body is a vessel of corruption; it is meant for death and for the worms, nothing more! And yet we devote ourselves to satisfying it, rather than to enriching our soul, which is so great that we can conceive nothing greater – no, nothing, nothing!