“Don’t write about me I was never meant to be your poem.”

The more you know her the more it scares yet it makes you wish you knew her more.

Blind are those who see only through eyes.

They said my success happened naturally, but who said nature is easy?

I have felt so much on my own I need a serious reason to let you in.

When the chaos creates comfort, and pain stops hurting your head, when you learn and accept the whole world, You know you possess yourself.

She was a strong and smart woman and could repair even a leaking sink and a broken TV. Doing everything on her own, still she always let him pull down her zipper…

Her stories always ended with three dots, sounding like an unfinished melody; she hoped he would guess the rest.

Baby we are not getting older each day we live our new versions and the new has no age.

Whats there to remember we made the most memories remembering each other.

What is perfect love if not loving each others imperfections perfectly?

She was too much for you…Pouring her love onto you, she thought she would quench your thirst, but you drowned…She didn’t know your heart was just a shot glass and not a continent.

My words fly around you like the annoying flies that only exist to disturb the silence and bite sometimes. When did I become so small

The irony is that we had more intimacy when apart.

What I love the most about us is that we are fully committed to each other without losing ourselves.

We used to play with barbies and when we grew up, we willingly became dolls in the hands of men, i guess we just miss our childhood games.

Lets make memories on the fly instead of just dreaming.

He said ‘words are nothing but clumsy’-as he watched poetry fall from my lips.

Beneath every scar there lies a tragedy, that we try to heal through writing poetry.

Whatever is true of life let it not be true of love, love surely lives much longer in paintings and in poetry.

Poetry is the voice of the soul and the inspiration of the heart.

Our love is poetry oozing from our hearts spilling onto bedsheets and tearing us apart. Our love was always meant to be a journey through the cosmos for eternity.

His love held the scent of lavenders, as i carved them into poetry.

He is the story I cannot finish he is the poem I’ll always miss.

Maybe we become what we write about.