“I can feel the dust of her skin in my skin; and I think maybe that means these bones of mine have grown weary of crying too.”

I’ve been quiet most of today. By which I mean I can see myself in the mirror; And believe me it is something hard to look at these days.

I guess you’re the bee and the stings all at once; By which I mean you’re the reason I wrap these tired bones around every aching thing.

In the end the salt calls the ocean home; and I guess this is why drowning has always been a part of loving you.

I guess this has been my confusion; where I went wrong. Thinking that love could possibly come as a thing without the burns.

To me there was only ever you!

I knew you would leave someday; And from there a poet will be born from the ashes.

Love is a job doer and a man slayer. Both equally efficient, until the taste of it is most felt on the cold side of the ribs.

There’s not much I know about forgetting. By which I mean I can hear her name from a distance; and it still breathes cold in my chest.

Respect pain. Every heartfelt word is first born from sadness.

I’m a drunk poet; and I guess maybe I sipped too much of what I couldn’t buy of her.

I held my breath underwater and felt surrender in my lungs; maybe this too counts as love.

And when the cold comes, I swear I can feel her in my bones.

Today I can see the cracks on the wall they’re visible; but I can tell they are finding their way to soil, And so am I.

Maybe water is not entirely lost when soaked into sand. Maybe it finds a better resting place to call home; and I hope she did too.

All through the depression, I was the soft toy in the hands of a baby with sharp teeth.

After healing I’ll run back to her – of course this poem demands a brutal ending!

You can’t take no breaks.

Passion is always a mystery and unaccountable, and unfortunately there is no doubt that life does not spare its purest children; often it is just the most deserving people who cannot help loving those that destroy them.

God the Father’s a deep root; the Son’s the shoot that breaks into the world; the Spirit spreads the beauty & fragrance.

God bless us everyone, we’re broken people living under a loaded gun.

If this fame, which people call my lucky break, were to stop tomorrow, I shouldn’t care.

An escalator can never break: it can only become stairs.

An escalator can never break: it can only become stairs. You should never see an Escalator Temporarily Out Of Order sign, just Escalator Temporarily Stairs. Sorry for the convenience.

The man who gives way to anger, or hatred, or any other passion, cannot work; he only breaks himself to pieces, and does nothing practical. It is the calm, forgiving, equable, well-balanced mind that does the greatest amount of work.