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And that is the nature of us poets and whores, to make things hard: dicks, choices, life.

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I drink to the ones that can sit with their souls and not wish for sleep and the nightmares it brings.
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Drink Myself Sleep Soul
On paper I have killed you a thousand times but my heart disregards clever words.
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I swear if I were to rip myself open, it wouldn’t be blood that poured out of me, it would be him.
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I have God in my words and the devil in my ear, and a sister who keeps telling me to find my magic.
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I write because suicide is no longer an option.
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Pleasure or pain; I’ll take either as long as it is laced with passion.
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I like my soul when it touches yours; winter turns to summer and my nightmares become dreams.
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Sometimes love is nothing more than a sticky web; illusions spun, from clever minds and bitter hearts.
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He was exactly like hitting a red light during a killer streak of green.
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Himself Kill Light
You were a lifetime ago, yet here I am, still pulling pieces of you out of me.
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Break Up Life Pieces Time Yourself
You load your words as I bare my chest, and this will be the most beautiful death.
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She is love, and a little fucking unstoppable.
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One day I will fall gracefully to pieces. Until then, I’ll just fall.
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He was everything I never could, but always wanted to love.
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He was all dangerous eyes and beautiful lies, but I ached. for him to lie to me some more.
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Poetry is the loveliest art. It has a wretched way of revealing our own character when we think we are judging the poets.
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