“You left flowers on my bedside as if I were my tomb clumsy words that don’t begin to heal my wounds “I’m sorry” scrawled on a post-it.”

Maybe we’ll meet on the beach sand in our shoes, waves in our guts flowers blooming by some miracle because you always had the talent to make those happen.

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

You are what you want, Do you want who you are?

It turns out the monster in you overshadowed the ghost of kindness I so believed in.

Bound by rose thorns, pricked by love.

We burn incandescent memories lungs aching with washed-out oxygen as if we weren’t to meet again.

Down to the marrow in your bones, you will always be beautiful to me.

Everyone says the door is open with a smile until the door is not opened and the house collapses and they finally realize why they needed a door in the first place.

Souls are more than their bodies and bodies are more than their shapes.

Swallowing the negative words rising up my throat; I am writing my days with smiles and laughter.

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

You keep asking if I want more – Yet how could I ever say yes?

Sun rising slowly, frost hanging in the plush air; The skies are ablaze.

Be the root of my passion; young love, just you and me.

And I’ll never try to figure you out; You aren’t a puzzle to be solved and set aside.

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

As warmth makes even glaciers trickle, and opens streams in the ribs of frozen mountains, so the heart knows the full flow and life of its grief only when it begins to melt and pass away.

Where poverty ceases, avarice begins.

When I was a boy I was told that anybody could become President. I’m beginning to believe it.

I think there’s a percentage that don’t realize, that don’t know that [standup] is how everything began. We planned it, we work hard, rehearsals to get this. It’s more of a it’s not just coming in there in a T-shirt and holding a microphone.

It’s not the end. It’s the beginning.

Where choice begins, Paradise ends, innocence ends, for what is Paradise but the absence of any need to choose this action?

Every story has an end, but every end is a new beginning.

We shall have to begin all over again. [Taft hoped that] the Senators might change their minds, or that the people might change the Senate; instead of which they changed me.