“All the poetry in the world could not put us together again.”

I loved you as Icarus loved the sun- too close, too much.

The worst goodbye is the one you never thought you’d have to say.

How sad, to face a future without the one you planned it with.

If it isn’t Happy Ending yet, keep writing.

We’ll go slow, together,

I wish it had meant as little to me, as it did to you.

And life went on. It was not the same, but it went on.

Who you want and who you need and sometimes two different people.

We were almost fine, almost together.

Of all the lies I have ever lived, my favorite was You and I.

Almost. Maybe. Perhaps. Nearly. So close- A collection of the saddest words.

And nobody is winning the war inside me.

Some people can be in your memories but not in your life.

Our love was of the autumn- heady, golden and pure. But limited, always doomed to expire.

The more you care, the more it hurts.

I want to fight for you but I do not know how and the battle was lost long before it began.

Sometimes there are no words. Sometimes, it’s just poetry.

I like things that go into hidden, mysterious places, places I want to explore that are very disturbing. In that disturbing thing, there is sometimes tremendous poetry and truth.

I’ve always written poetry but I didn’t realise it was a therapy for me until I was maybe 15. That’s when my singing started to come together as well because I was listening to so much jazz. What I love I will always embrace.

I always wrote poetry and stuff like that, so putting songs together wasn’t that spectacular.

Burnt mirror, smeared glass. Do you like what you see? If my body is a temple, then my poetry is the darkest vestry. My mouth is a chalice, and these words are sacramental.

I learned that to be amusing was not to be frivolous and that language – always the language – was the magic key as much to prose as to poetry.

She was an artist on top of me, and soaked my sheets with poetry.

Each time I fall back in love with myself, I leave my pen and paper behind. It isn’t personal, or maybe it is. I just a always thought that poetry was for the hurting.