“It was the year you learned that shooting stars were either a blessing or a curse, depending on what you wanted to believe.”

Of all you’ve used against me, the worst has been my words.

The distance from you is measured in how far I’ve come.

Anything and everything, the two almost the same–everything says, have it all; anything, one to claim.

There is a certain quality to words that when strung in a certain way-has an almost hypnotic effect.

Our emotions pull us in different directions. The stronger the emotion, the greater the pull. Feelings are not always practical, nor do they make any logical sense. That’s just the way it goes.

When was the last time you felt like someone knew you and not the person you’ve been pretending to be. When was the last time you felt like yourself.

Now that you have it all, do you ever wish you could go back to when you had it simple?

The memory of you is fading, a little at a time, and I can feel myself forgetting.

I wish I could put a pen in your hand and gently remind you how the world has given you poetry and now you must give it back.

I know you are scared. Who could blame you? Love is a hurricane wrapped inside a chrysalis. And you are a girl walking into the storm.

Some pieces will sing to your present, others may echo of your past, and the rest could whisper of your future.

It was beautifully worded and painfully read; the things that were written, were those never said.

There is one who you belong to, whose love- there is no song for.

I used to think I couldn’t go a day without your smile. Without telling you things and hearing your voice back.

The feeling is like the ocean. Sometimes calm and still; other times, it’s a hurricane.

Summer was felt a little more; in autumn I began to fall. When winter came with all its white, you were mine to kiss goodnight.

The money pigs of capitalist democracy: Money has made slaves of us. Money is the curse of mankind. It smothers the seed of everything great and good. Every penny is sticky with sweat and blood.

Your soft heart is a blessing not a curse.

What a gentle curse: to still want you after all we’ve been.

You hurt and I bleed. What a curse to feel so deeply.

The curse turned to grace when the hurt turned to faith.

It’s a curse. I ask God to take this away from me all the time. I do not like being an artist.

That is the curse of immortality: to watch the world change, to see everything you know wither.

Life is suffering. It is hard. The world is cursed. But still, you find reasons to keep living.