“You are the lost pages of my life – the years I lost my heart.”

In the end, what matters is how you lived your life. Were you happy? Did you love enough? Did you reach for the stars?

They bleed not in the mouth but through their ink – indelible and dark.

May the sun shine brighter on days when you feel like your battle’s getting harder.

The right hands will erase your aches for love builds more than it breaks.

She is love in its purest form; her arms, the safest place I’ve known. She is the scent of home; the warrior who carried me in her womb.

Your memory is my opium – sustaining me daily, killing me softly.

We made promises, and then life happened.

But despite it all, I’m glad we happened.

Nothing in life is worth pursuing if it means prolonging your suffering.

Am I little mad for writing someone I’ll never have?

People are much brighter and more beautiful when they talk of things they love.

Pain and loneliness can be addictive, but there can also be strength in embracing it.

Silence is a loud language – weapon of the wise, solace of the tired hearts.

I have been alone for so long that having somebody feels like a strange thought. Silence has been my most loyal compassion.

Roses are red, violets are blue, star-crossed lovers – me and you.

I believe in your dreams. The sweetest words to a writer’s ears.

Adaptation is always the same process for me, which is some version of throwing the book at the wall and seeing what pages fall out.

Let others pride themselves about how many pages they have written; I’d rather boast about the ones I’ve read.

Mom flipped through the magazines like the pages needed to be slapped.

It seems the best work I do is when I am really allowing the unconscious to rule the page and then later I can go back and hack around and make sense of things.

I huff and puff and struggle with every sentence, paragraph and page – sometimes every word as well.

Between the pages of a book is a lovely place to be.

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I think many poets, including myself, write both for the voice and for the page. I certainly write for the person alone in the library, who pulls down a book and it opens to a poem. I am also very conscious of what it means to read these poems aloud.