“As I feel your heart shatter like sand through my helpless fingers I envision ripples through the tar of your blood.”

She greets death with a curtsy.

You can hit me and push me but you can’t quite beat me.

I lay awake thinking about how none of it had to happen for me to get to this point; and how I’m glad I got there, anyway.

It’s just me and my mangled limbs your touch soothing but unconvincing singsong whispers of lives unlived.

And if you only opened the window you’d see the morning light seep through.

Hearts retch on homestretch where will we go?

I don’t believe in love at first sight; only now I realize that you did.

‘Why are we here?’ I inquired of my body, spirit, and soul. ‘Here to do whatever feels good.’ Said the first. ‘Here to do what feels good.’ Said the second. ‘Here to choose.’ Said the third. ‘Between both.’

Be the reason someone smiles. Be the reason someone feels loved and believes in the goodness in people.

I don’t feel like I’m in competition with anybody. If I’m worried about beating somebody else, I’m not going to be the best version of myself. It shouldn’t be a competition because somebody else winning is not going to make me lose.

When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth.

I love the fact that I can make people happy, in any form. Even if it’s just an hour of their lives, if I can make them feel lucky or make them feel good, or bring a smile to a sour face, that to me is worthwhile.

I have the true feeling of myself only when I am unbearably unhappy.

A feeling of aversion or attachment toward something is your clue that there’s work to be done.

I don’t really feel like I done made it all the way. I feel like, ‘OK, we did this. Then we grinded enough to get to this point. Now we gotta grind enough to get bigger and bigger,’ you know?