“Be careful, her hell is lovely, dark, and deep until she weeps.”

And every time I care I die a little.

There are parts of me that beg him to devour all of me.

The art of harvesting pain – poetry.

Poetry is not a cure for sadness but it makes the pain bearable.

I’m laying bare still untouched by the hands I crave completely taken by words.

You didn’t need to make her cuts this deep.

She dances barefoot through the smoke upon ashes from a broken world  – she is hope.

A loving reminder at least we are lonely together.

Steal back your heart – self-love.

And then I understood you were never my rescue yet always my escape.

He may never slay a dragon but he will grow old with you begging for death to leave you alone.

And they wrapped her in darkness until she became it – Lilith.

Are you aware of the wilderness you awoke when you broke me?

Her poetry  – a sweet symphony of madness.

I just want to lay in your arms dressed in nothing but love and moonlight.

She tried building walls but a heart of fire and air breath and spirit cannot be confined.

Experience teaches. [Lat., Experientia docet.]

An eminent reputation is as dangerous as a bad one.

They terrify lest they should fear.

Everything unknown is magnified. [Lat., Omne ignotum pro magnifico est.]

Flattery labors under the odious charge of servility.

Weep not for me. Rather let your tears flow for the sorrows of the multitude. My work is done. Like a ripe fruit I admit the gathering. Death has no terrors for it is a wise law of nature. I am ready whenever the summons may come.

I was glad to see other blues guitarists like Albert King have crossover successes like me. We played in the same places like the Whisky and the Filmore. When Albert made his guitar cry, he could cut you so deep!

It’s easier to hurt someone and make them cry, than it is to dry their eyes.