“How lonely it must be in that shallow pool you wade alone in.”

Do your worst, reach deep inside of me now, tell me how do I feel?

Take a bow, lover you played the part so well you almost had me believing.

Follow the dream until the end you’ll find me waiting there.

You haven’t broken me, You’ve only cracked open my out shell and I thank you for releasing the warrior from within.

He breathed life into me and then left me suffocating.

She has a beautiful way of turning pain into love for others.

No matter what I try there is nothing that I can do to keep the look of love from not looking like you.

When I look to my heart for answers your face is all I can see.

Kiss me with those lips burn forever into my skin envelop me within your love until I am whole again.

One of the greatest mistakes was believing that I could love the devil out of you.

She held all of the power in her hands, and yet she handed it all over to you- and you destroyed her.

I look to the face of many I stare into the eyes of a few, and as much as I try replicating you there is simply no replacing you.

She is an all encompassing enigma of beauty and madness don’t attempt to tie her down.

I never knew someone could be both the peace as well as the war within me.

I’ll allow for this pain to bleed from my pen onto the paper to relieve the pressure from my tortured mind.

We’d come such a long way to find we’d made all the wrong turns.

I like to think of myself as the sun, but it gets really lonely all the way out here especially when everything I try to touch burns.

My mind is a lonely place.

Love plans for tomorrow and loneliness thinks of yesterday.

That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.

Because I have been lonely, I value love.

I hate albums that are really happy. When I am really happy, I don’t like to hear happy albums, and when I am really sad I don’t wanna hear happy albums… and I tend to gravitate towards the lonely and isolated anyway when I write.

That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.

The most important thing a writer can have [is] the ability to live with the constant loneliness and a strong sense of revulsion for the banalities of everyday socializing.