“There are those like me, people who write selfishly. We who write for the love we lost, can’t have, or the lack thereof.”

A step, no matter how little, is still progress.

You don’t have to know everything or figure out everything. Be comfortable in not knowing all the answers.

Without rhymes and metaphors I am, at my core, just a lover left alone.

You can risk or forever regret about chances you missed.

For what its worth, I thought we would make it. I wished – I really did.

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.