“We were each other’s muses, I find that quite amusing.”

One quick sip of your memory I let it slip, and I go on without you.

The art of being uncomfortable is a fine one it is necessary to become strong.

A love that is, a love that was, a love that loved.

I thought of you to realize that you haven’t crossed my mind for a while.

You could have shook my whole world luckily I became aware, and I took a turn.

I decide that my vulnerability is my strength I remember to not forget.

Time is by my side I’m not running forward for time is not behind.

Sometimes you need to take a tiny break to take space and reevaluate.

You were the sun that made me see that to be loved is also destined for me.

Tainted colors in summer rain mixed with white to relieve all the pain.

You don’t have to be afraid it’s okay everything will graciously fall into place.

You revived me after my knees were weak, you kept going on towards another peak.

I move a bit slower that is fine because I blossom after I hide.

Writing is my job, and I am employed by god.

Death is love, and love is death it is letting go even before your last breath.

You made me uncomfortable, in a good way.

Poetic talent doesn’t operate in a vacuum. There is a spirit of Polish poetry.

When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.

There were things that he wanted to write on paper, about everything he couldn’t tell her.

Poets tell many lies.

You can’t be a good writer without being a good thinker.

There are two men inside the artist, the poet and the craftsman. One is born a poet. One becomes a craftsman.

She said fuck this and became her own muse.

Lovers, Lunatics and poets are made of same stuff.