“I revel in the solace found when gold rays caress your sleeping face. Blissfully unaware of the beauty they’re revealing.”

It seems strange how we look in the same mirror, yet what stares back, is so painfully different.

These empty halls are crowded, this silence is too loud. Shadows they call out, now i’ve lost what once was found.

You cannot force a vine to grow the fruit of an apple tree, for the sake of your love of apples. What fruit can it possibly bear?

My blood is fifty percent alcohol the other half was you.

Now i’m like you, just a memory floating across, this now foreign land.

You’re my bad habit, on this dark planet, light up my world like stars, now they’re ashes.

I don’t want to forget you, even though its best to, now you’re just the empty space, in my bedroom.

Contemplate your own mortality daily, then see how much we must change.

My closest friend is myself, although he may lie to me, at least i know the lies to be true.

Of all the roses in the bush, you have the sharpest thorns.

A cherry blossom refusing to bow to the seasons; fighting off frozen winds fiercely, for it knows the power held in the beauty, of its bloom.

I want to hear your secrets, to learn their weight, and bare them as my own.

You are a drug that my blood forgot, it needed.

My roots touched mother earth and she blessed me with her color. Brown skin is beautiful.

I’ve stopped trying to make sense of the sunset.  There is beauty in resting, there is strength in letting go.

Ghosts exist as thoughts, and some of them are hauntingly beautiful.

As the last cold drops of rain splattered across my face; I watched the dark, ominous clouds fade away; undressing an amalgam of exquisite colors. My soul blushed. The rainbow was warm, beautiful, and poetic. Like a love letter from god.

Mathematics rightly viewed possesses not only truth but supreme beauty.

Mathematics, rightly viewed, possesses not only truth but supreme beauty – a beauty cold and austere.

With all the secrets and lies you keep. Your beauty is only skin deep. Vamp.

To be an artist is to look at a tragedy and innately see the beauty in it.