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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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You can’t tame a girl who has her head. In the clouds and one foot out the door.
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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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I still pick at these memories of you; I pick them until they bleed.
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I am world of uncertainties disguised as a girl.
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Be patient with me, dear heart. The art of loving is a peculiar business when one has spent an eternity hating themselves.
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She tasted like wildflowers; crushed, wet wild flowers carried in sticky palms through farmers’ fields, just before dawn.
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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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Moon child with your galaxy heart, cool your heels and stay awhile.
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We were electric together, you and me; we turned hurting each other into a goddamned symphony.
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I think I saw you again in the moonlight tonight, and I swear I could taste the hints of it alll.
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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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You load your words as I bare my chest, and this will be the most beautiful death.
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I breathe him in so deep that when he is gone I exhale and taste him again.
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He was everything I never could, but always wanted to love.
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If I had known our last kiss was to be our last kiss, I would have kissed you as if it was our first.
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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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