“Let go of the honey-sweet lies for the bittersweet truths.”

My words decay. I grow as they fray, unbecoming in the passage of time.

I overwhelmingly write from sadness – in songs, in prose, in verse.

I search for comedy scripts / I watch happy shows / In hopes that laughter will be the remedy I end my day with.

I hide myself in the galaxies of my creations – unsure of who I am beyond that.

I wonder why I’m so empathetic, why people perceive me to be so kind. I don’t want my heart to burn when there’s no one burning mine.

We walk in circles, never knowing when to end the cycle our hearts put us in.

Somewhere the silence resonates, the clutter clears, and you’re set to start again.

And so, my ‘What if’s’ became ‘What’s next?’

Why is it that you have more practice describing weaknesses than strengths? It’s not your fault they never went to the lengths to teach you how to value your strengths.

It felt vulnerable to have people know my weaknesses, but there is so much strength from going back to the start and re-determining who you are.

When you and the world are out of breath, take the steps to ensure your own needs are met. By the moment you know someone can’t on their own, you’ll hopefully be ready to help.

I carry on knowing that when I deteriorate, my body will be a museum of all I can do and all that hindered me.

It’s really hard to grow up wanting to provide people with resources and support and realizing that while I can and will do that – I also need more than I thought I would.

The thought of you having to try hurts because it feels like you should have known to let me go before you grabbed ahold.

Tell me I’m sun-kissed, but you burn my skin. And you already told me, I was paper thin.

They hit like waves, the memories of those old summer days. Memories you’d have thought to erase, but they crash ashore without haste.

An excuse is worse and more terrible than a lie; for an excuse is a lie guarded.

A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.

He who tells a lie is not sensible of how great a task he undertakes; for he must be forced to invent twenty more to maintain that one.

The men the American people admire most extravagantly are the most daring liars; the men they detest most violently are those who try to tell them the truth.

The road we have long been traveling is deceptively easy, a smooth superhighway on which we progress with great speed, but at its end lies disaster.

It is easier for the world to accept a simple lie than a complex truth.

When I was little, I would always lie about the stupidest things. In kindergarten or first grade, I would tell people I had tigers living in my attic and a room full of gold.