“The deepest relationships belong to the friends who were one lovers, and the lovers who were once friends.”

Oh, you fool. You turned cold and stopped loving when the world needed it most.

The warmth is spring is near. It smells of hope and cheer. The budding bulbs of daffodils will end the endless fear.

Sunshine comes after rain. Rain comes after sunshine. Joy and sadness remain in an eternal back and forth. Such balance hold the world in place.

I trust the universe. If we exist for each other, time will bring is both back to our beginning.

I sacrificed you for life, hope, optimism. Do you expect me to regret that?

You are a question that I’ll never know the answer to.

We are gardens. We flourish and grow. Despite the rain, despite the snow.

I’ve learned the difference between being a good person and being a popular.

The hardest goodbyes are the ones you never got to say.

My dearest contradiction. You are soft and obliterating, like the moon’s glare upon a sinner.

I’d prefer to wield a rose than to wield the gun.

We parted sadly, like children in the street on a pleasant june afternoon.

I ache and long and feel in a language older than ours; one without words or phrases, consisting only of melancholy.

Every word I write is crude and weak when it comes to conveying you how much I appreciate you.

We are all marks of condensation on polished glass; steadily fading away.

The only person you’ll spend your entire life with is yourself. You should be your first focus.

You don’t have to try to fix anyone. You just have to love them.

Cold in the earth and the deeps now piled above thee, Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last byTime’s all-serving wave?

The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. I have always considered myself a voice of what I believe to be a greater renaissance – the revolt of the soul against the intellect.

Shame arises from the fear of men, conscience from the fear of God.

And wisdom is a butterfly And not a gloomy bird of prey.

You can make hell out of heaven and heaven out of hell. It’s all in the mind.

Writing is a process of self-discipline you must learn before you can call yourself a writer. There are people who write, but I think they’re quite different from people who must write.

Sometimes it is the spider that feels trapped in the very web she weaves.