“I could write pages of poetry about you. And yet words never seem to say enough.”

In a room full of people. I hope I have the courage to always be me.

How I wish I could hold you a little longer, and more. And forever.

I do, so often, wish you were here. But more often I wish that you were wishing to be here.

You can walk in and out. I have built no doors.

The flowers you don’t water, will never bloom.

And sometimes they leave not because they didn’t love enough. But maybe because love isn’t everything.

Clean your slate. Empty your cup. Let every moment. Fill you up.

He said he cannot read in between the lines. And I have poured all my heart there.

If I am to be only a passing season in your life, I hope I be spring.

Let me be like the leaves on the trees. Let me sway with the gentlest breeze.

If trees looked at fallen leaves and gave up, we would have no forests.

Not all love lives forever. But is it not love still? The maybe and the almost. And the love that never will.

I have loved you and missed you all for so long. That even this feeling feels like home.

You’re the kind of song, I want to hear on repeat. For a lifetime.

Like the endless stars in the skies. I love you, more than you know. And I miss you, more than I am allowed.

Maybe when I pour my words on paper. Maybe it’ll feel like how it might feel wrapping you in my arms.

Even when your tears have soaked through the last pages of your book, the sun will dry them and illuminate every word of your story.

The prolonged slavery of woman is the darkest page in human history.

Wherever, on the face of the globe or on the page of history, you show me a disfranchised class, I will show you a degraded class of labor.

Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind. Memories, sweetened through the ages just like wine.

The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.

He liked the mere act of reading, the magic of turning scratches on a page into words inside his head.

He liked the mere act of reading, the magic of turning scratches on a page into words inside his head.

I paint the way some people write an autobiography. The paintings, finished or not, are the pages from my diary.