“I learned to make art with my broken heart.”

I miss the sweat of september and the stickiness of the sheets.

Each night I sit at my windowsill like a wolf howling to the moon, hoping that somewhere you feel me calling to you.

Leave me like you mean it. My heart can’t keep waiting for you.

The future belongs to those who are brave enough to speak up about things that matter.

I think I’ll always remember your birthday and the way you took your coffee because they’ll forever be pieces of you I cannot burn.

We all show our true colors eventually – mine is dark and firesome red. I bet I burned you. I don’t expect to see you soon.

Faded secrets and old voices have built towns inside my heart. Thats were we still meet.

The sun touched your skin with innocent delicacy as if you were a work of out that was made to be admired deeply.

The sky was crying so I wiped away her tears, just like all the times she did the same me.

Each time I fall back in love with myself, I leave my pen and paper behind. It isn’t personal, or maybe it is. I just a always thought that poetry was for the hurting.

I woke up this morning and for once, I had no desire to drink my morning coffee. Is that how it felt for you to wake up and never return?

In a dream like haze, the moment you left still spins on repeat like a broken record.

I hope you think of me during every thunderstorm.

You don’t deserve my poetry. I hate that I give you that satisfaction still.

Your name still tastes like poison in my mouth.

Soft and sweet and wrapped around your fingertips.

Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love.

I knew nothing about martial arts. The coach told me I was talented with learning martial arts, and put me in a school. Three years later I got my first championship in China.

When we share art we extend a hand. We hold a mirror. We adjust our focus. We hold each other. We weave a collaborative story. Together.

For work, I wear art; in real life, I wear clothes.

Tenderness can be just as abstract as insanity.

Reserve the language of sculpture for the art of sculpture. Lest you confuse beauty with the shape of a jaw or art with the size of a stomach.

We are not trapped in what the science of management says we can do. We are capable of doing what the art of leadership says is possible.

Making money is art and working is art and good business is the best art.