“I cry because I don’t know how to help you, but I can’t even help myself.”

I’m sorry i can’t love in pieces, give me everything or nothing at all.

The moon is witness of all the nights I’ve spent waiting your return.

You say you don’t care but every time he gets hurt you feel the pain too.

A love so deep the ocean gets jealous.

Your thoughts were a prison and I? A helpless prisoner.

I believe, women are miraculous creatures. so compassionate yet carry the potential to bring you hell.

I hope you find someone, who pours love like rain during monsoon, onto all broken parts of you.

The world kept breaking you and here you are- still soft, still loving, how strong of you to maintain your magic in a world where everyone loses their essence.

I’m sorry love scares me, I’ve only seen it end in pain.

The pain keeps dripping down my eyes, but it never really stops hurting.

Even the stars cried when they wrote our fate, a love so deep yet we had to separate.

I stay kind, for the hurt in me knows, pain needs love to heal.

I am fire on the verge of ignition, don’t mistake me for a flame and then blame me for your destruction.

Self love is breaking your own heart to save your soul from shattering.

I know you are afraid to love again, but let the thrill of love be bigger than your fear of hurt.

Loves a drug, the one who overdoses bears the consequences.

They terrify lest they should fear.

Everything unknown is magnified. [Lat., Omne ignotum pro magnifico est.]

Flattery labors under the odious charge of servility.

Weep not for me. Rather let your tears flow for the sorrows of the multitude. My work is done. Like a ripe fruit I admit the gathering. Death has no terrors for it is a wise law of nature. I am ready whenever the summons may come.

I was glad to see other blues guitarists like Albert King have crossover successes like me. We played in the same places like the Whisky and the Filmore. When Albert made his guitar cry, he could cut you so deep!

It’s easier to hurt someone and make them cry, than it is to dry their eyes.

How evil life must be if it were indeed necessary that such imploring cries, such cries of physical and moral wretchedness, should ever and ever ascend to heaven!

Most days, I am the rain. – And that’s okay.