“Be careful, her hell is lovely, dark, and deep until she weeps.”

I don’t mind his company but I wish he was you.

I feel too much and I fall in love with words – poet.

Brave soul, you will survive it all.

With him, the tides the moon, and life itself lost their spell over her.

Some nights I wish I could slip into her skin and wear her flesh only to feel his touch.

And you broke me in all the ways I loved you.

She’s a daughter of the healers in Salem and even tho her wings are scorched she still chooses to do good.

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

And you will always be my most beautiful someone.

And his rough hands upon my porcelain skin had me howling at the moon.

And every time I care I die a little.

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.

Stop crying. You’re giving archangels everywhere a bad name.” patch to pepper

The audience likes their emotions to be touched. They want to laugh and cry and feel good.

For who would live so petty and unblest That dare not tilt at something ere he die; Rather than, screened by safe majority, Preserve his little life to little end, And never raise a rebel cry!

I suppose a cry does us all good at times-clears the air as other rain does.

There is one in every crowd, for crying out loud, why was is always turning out to be me?

Fire will attract more attention than any other cry for help.

The masses of the people of Africa are crying for unity.

(Some people say “Never let them see you cry.” I say, if you’re so mad you could just cry, then cry. It terrifies everyone.)