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

He is my heaven and my hell. Serving passion and poison with the same spoon, and i am a sucker for a taste.

If a home is where the heart is, I guess my home left with you. Please remember to water the flowers.

Go ahead break my heart. Although I love your darkness, the sun will eventually dry my tears and paint rainbows in my sky. I will transform this pain into poetry and these wings will carry me away.

I hope you rise like the sun, bright and cheerful. Fresh and free from yesterdays storms and ready to shine your light on the world.

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.

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.

It is the habit of mankind to entrust to careless hope what they long for, and to use sovereign reason to thrust aside what they do not desire.

Two attributes of a poet, avidity of the eye and the desire to describe that which he sees.

Philosophy is really nostalgia, the desire to be at home.

I yearn for things, but at the same time I am just peaceful.

Even as a child I had a strong relationship with yearning and desire. And loss. Those things spoke to me.

All the events of our life are materials of which we can make what we will.

Few things are brought to a successful issue by impetuous desire, but most by calm and prudent forethought.

Philosophy is properly home-sickness; the wish to be everywhere at home.