“Indigo child, you hid secret under graves, picked at the lamb stuck between teeth, felt around for monsters we once reaped. But the monster turned out to be free.”

Love is believable. I reckon I’ll just see it when I see it.

You have always been enough. Allow yourself to finally feel it.

What an intimidating kind of beauty a rainbow holds. Then of course, there’s the jealously dripping between vampirish teeth of those who dare mock it.

If I’m wrong about you, let’s face it instead of fading like tire marks swallowed by rain. Run me into the midst of a storm. Leave me to drown there.

Some days, my mind still flickers, but the light doesn’t stay on. Kind of like the hope I felt when your fingers squeezed my palm. But they simply call that a reflex.

Needle in a haystack, a small town on a roadmap, searching for you through the abstract- how incredibly hard to find.

If y’all like spooky season just examine my brain. It’s plastered across this page on display.

You ever stare at something so long the colors blend together? Even the most neutral tones take on a life of their own, fold themselves into shapes that morph into creatures – wolves and goblin.

When words tripped off the side of your grin, I felt the statement slip toward my ear like the slide of a skateboard on griptape – how it led me to hate a sport I’ve never even tried.

I wait and wait and wait and god I am sick of waiting. To not see your face anymore. To not know the burden that belongs to you. To not imagine the window I looked through the night I found out.

Your promises shatter like glass. Sliced nerves for every lie that travels from your tongue.

I am hurting. I am angry. I am one hundred and thirty-two synonyms of regret, but atleast its proof that I was here.

I wish I could bottle up this scent for winter days when it feels like this town will never see sun again.

The hardest part is when the leaves abandon the trees. I seem to always lose a part of me.

Don’t bother finding a soulmate. Your aunt tells you, your fluffy scrambled eggs are the best she’s had and dammit, you can enjoy those all by yourself. No need to share the wealth.

Surely I could never be certain of how many stars I’ve counted in the sky or of how such tiny particles can be build into wild-eyed stories like Aquarius and Cassiopeia. I could read you as I would the constellations and never tire.

I am the child of Fortune, the giver of good, and I shall not be shamed. She is my mother; my sisters are the Seasons; my rising and my falling match with theirs. Born thus, I ask to be no other man than that I am.

The kids from the streets don’t want preaching or messages. They want what they can identify with. They want to hear about the reality of their situation, not fairy tales. They don’t care if it’s ugly; they just want reality.

Rock is my child and my grandfather.

So much of what holds us back in life are the long-held resentments stemming from childhood.

I am a child of borderlines and we are two lands, carved differently.

No doubt the artist is the child of his time; but woe to him if he is also its disciple, or even its favorite.

The blues was like that problem child that you may have had in the family. You was a little bit ashamed to let anybody see him, but you loved him. You just didn’t know how other people would take it.

Children are the anchors of a mother’s life.