“Sometimes love is nothing more than a sticky web; illusions spun, from clever minds and bitter hearts.”

When I told you that I hadn’t been broken before; it wasn’t a fucking challenge.

I like my soul when it touches yours; winter turns to summer and my nightmares become dreams.

I have been covered in easy kisses from uneasy lips, and I know I smell weary again.

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

One day I will fall gracefully to pieces. Until then, I’ll just fall.

Whatever it is that stirs your soul listen to that. Everything else is just noise.

He calms my chaos and I fuel his fire. We are a match made between heaven and hell.

Dance with me. Bring my demons to their knees.

We were electric together, you and me; we turned hurting each other into a goddamned symphony.

You can fan the flames with hate or stroke the fire with love, either way, it’s going to burn.

I drink to the ones who can sit with their souls and not wish for sleep and the nightmares it brings.

The tide has pulled the storm from my soul again. But in all that is right or wrong and pure, there is you, and your stunning ability to blur the lines and just be.

I breathe him in so deep that when he is gone I exhale and taste him again.

I will not force a pretty smile upon my face to please eyes that no longer see me.

Moon child with your galaxy heart, cool your heels and stay awhile.

He was exactly like hitting a red light during a killer streak of green.

The deepest hunger of [a child’s] human heart is to be understood, for understanding implicitly affirms, validates, recognizes and appreciates the intrinsic worth of another.

To be free comes not from changing or fixing this world, but from seeing this world as it is and opening the heart in the midst of it.

Everybody has a heart. Except some people.

Because the world is so full of death and horror, I try again and again to console my heart and pick the flowers that grow in the midst of hell.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening.

It taught him how to listen — how to listen with a quiet heart and a waiting soul, open soul, without passion, without desire, without judgment, without opinion.

His heart danced upon her movement like a cork upon a tide.

Paintings are seldom guilty and often framed for crimes they did not commit. Some cover holes-holes in walls, holes in lives. Some make holes-in wallets, holes in hearts in negative space.