“Let me be a poem freely hung in your diary. Like the moon, on the night sky.”

Its alright darl, moon is also alone in the crowd of stars.

We were so close that I almost mistook it forever.

He killed her autumn with his cherry blossom smile.

You’re a flower, the universe has given to the nature to profess its love.

After heartbreak, darling treat yourself with some sunset and poetry in a wine glass.

Your name is a song my thoughts dance on until they reach the tip of my quill.

Fear people who dare to walk with their chest open, despite of having a heart bruise by love.

He looks up in the sky. I count stars in his eyes.

Your lips taste a lot like petrichor, on my rainy days.

Exist so loud that even if you die tonight, your deeds illuminate like stars.

Life is a burden and death is a luxury, at last we are all dreaming to buy.

And the biggest irony is you spend a lifetime finding someone to love and then die learning how to unlove them.

I’m the ocean swaying with the harmony of your moon.

Gift him flowers and watch him blushing like even fall.

You’re breathed all over the walls of my lungs and I don’t know how to breathe you out.

Your name landed on my lips like december snow and slept there forever like a baby.

Please read my diary, look through my things and figure me out.

If you read, you’ll judge.

Though my father was Norwegian, he always wrote his diaries in perfect English.

Painting is just another way of keeping a diary.

I paint the way some people write an autobiography. The paintings, finished or not, are the pages from my diary.

The reason for my starting a diary is that I have no real friend.

Writing in a diary is a really strange experience for someone like me.

I always say, keep a diary and someday it’ll keep you.