“I cannot tell if it is a blessing from an old god or lovely dark art only that he holds my heart.”

There are parts of me that beg him to devour all of me.

The art of harvesting pain – poetry.

Poetry is not a cure for sadness but it makes the pain bearable.

I’m laying bare still untouched by the hands I crave completely taken by words.

You didn’t need to make her cuts this deep.

She dances barefoot through the smoke upon ashes from a broken world  – she is hope.

A loving reminder at least we are lonely together.

Steal back your heart – self-love.

And then I understood you were never my rescue yet always my escape.

He may never slay a dragon but he will grow old with you begging for death to leave you alone.

And they wrapped her in darkness until she became it – Lilith.

Are you aware of the wilderness you awoke when you broke me?

Her poetry  – a sweet symphony of madness.

I just want to lay in your arms dressed in nothing but love and moonlight.

She tried building walls but a heart of fire and air breath and spirit cannot be confined.

They saw her beaten and broken I saw the birth of a warrior.

The art of living is more like wrestling than dancing.

The greatest fine art of the future will be the making of a comfortable living from a small piece of land.

All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique.

A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.

The art of knowing is knowing what to ignore.

Take care to sell your horse before he dies. The art of life is passing losses on.

Take care to sell your horse before he dies. The art of life is passing losses on.

Artists are here to disturb the peace.