“Listen to the beat of beauty with your heart.”

You are like the first rays of the sun – a whole new world.

Memory is not your enemy. The real enemy is your desires, chasing your past lamenting over and over.

Seek you in me in your darkest times.

Sky; a map of constellations intertwined with dark and light.

Horizon; where lovers entwine like they did alluring, spellbinding – what an affinity they have.

You gave me the courage to rise but my darling robin why did you fly leaving me behind these four walls all alone?

To those who say self-love is selfish, you are either hunted or haunted.

Poetry is a feeling, a feeling of healing.

It’s unconditional; their chemistry is unconditional – forever.

Poetry is a pleasure to your pressure.

I never understood flowers until I met you.

Fall is the rise.

At times being oblivious keeps me more alive in this chaos.

You hit the soft spot of me making my heart skip a beat.

You are my tamed fire in the wind.

Poetry is a home, a home with joy.

The fame isn’t important to me. It’s a blessing to have. Having so many people that support me, that love me and listen to my music, is beautiful.

The most beautiful lessons are the hardest, and letting go is the most difficult out of the rest to do.

We made a mess of this love, you and I. Forever the most beautiful disaster.

Don’t be afraid of failure & that’s a dam beautiful thing.

I wish to meet you when you madly dance in the rain, sipping on whiskey, feeling every drop touching your beautiful face.

We judge on the basis of what somebody looks like, skin color, whether we think they’re beautiful or not. That space on the Internet allows you to converse with somebody with none of those things involved.

The heart is a beautiful garden that needs to be regularly cleaned of weeds, i.e. forgiving those who made you angry. This makes room for really good things.

I know how our fingers would interlace. Like this and that. Delicate yet determined. As porcelain scales in serene movements. Iridescent in ways our thoughts could not convey. How beautifully we are made in the ways we trace out along soft skins the words that linger within us.