“Sometimes you have to chop off the dead ends so that you can continue To grow in a healthy direction.”

I’ve become almost professional, at pushing the feelings aside, away, afar. It’s not hard at all, in fact, It’s a chore to feel anything at all.

Seasons change, With my heart along For the ride.

I love the idea of those Who sing in the car; Dance while they eat; Laugh at their own mistakes. I envy these people So in love with just existing.

Your Smile, that smile you beam From cheek to cheek, Has such a way of leaving me weak.

Don’t force yourself into crevices that are much too small For your big, wild heart.

The moon screams, “You’re running out of time,” But perhaps tomorrow is only A new beginning.

Maybe our story didn’t end the way we planned but, Neither did the beginning. Regardless, our story will remain as one of my fondest memories.

I’ve grown tired of playing the warrior In the battle between me And my demons.

It breaks my heart in half watching your spirit fall. So when the light is fading, can I be the one you call?

I truly believe that we amount to what we contribute to the world, But lately, everyone seems more concerned with taking.

I’m a little bit different And I can’t always admit it, But honestly I’m okay With sticking out. I might do things backwards – Without getting the facts first, But I need you to love me without a doubt.

You plant flowers In the darkest parts Of me, and then you bathe me in your light. Thank you for Helping me grow.

Follow the path that forces your soul to glow and your heart to shine through your eyes.

I’ve been trying to put the pieces of my puzzle back together but my hands are far too shaky to put my life in order.

You can’t keep living backwards – Reminiscing on what was, And terrified to pursue What could be.

I’ve been scratching at the surface trying to escape the darkness that calls me from below.

All interest in disease and death is only another expression of interest in life.

I’m the only talk show host, I think, if there’s such a category in, what’s called, the book of records, to have a guest die while we were taping the show, yeah.

What will be the death of me are buillabaisses, food spiced with pimiento, shellfish, and a load of exquisite rubbish which I eat in disproportionate quantities.

If you believe Jesus ever had a good word for war or torture or tax cuts for the rich, or raping the earth, or refusing water to dying migrants, then you might as well believe bunnies lay painted eggs.

I used to think of deathlike I suppose soldiers think of it: it was a possible thing that I could well avoid by my skill.

Death is Peaceful, Life is Harder.

A living thing is distinguished from a dead thing by the multiplicity of the changes at any moment taking place in it.

He was giving up on keeping me alive, letting nature–or rather mob justice–take its course. When he returned, and I was dead, he wouldn’t hold anyone responsible. He would not mourn. All this I could hear in those three words.