It’s a poem, of our love, that doesn’t rhyme. A story, never meant to have, a happy end.

Where the cheerful childrenof unwritten poems, play all around, you will find me there.

Only to close these eyesto sleep in the lap of loveand stay there forever.

From all my dreams where you felt everlastingto all my clothes your words used to wear, to the old end, to the new beginning, you have lost me everywhere.

Do you love me enough that I am allowed to be damaged? Do you love me enough that I am allowed to be weak in some places?

What about those Promises of yours to never leave me? she asked, stammering too much this time. His cruel smirk was as gut-wrenching as his words— Promises are meant to be broken, sweetheart.

The way your curious eyes were chasing mine when I stood in front of you, I knew I had known these eyes before.

I feel the pain—everywhere.

I threw myself so far in your depth that it took me a month to come out and notice I was actually sitting in my room. Nowhere else. Not with you.

Someday, even my existence would be felt.

Do you love me enough that I am allowedto be damaged? Do you love me enough that I am allowed to be weak in some places?

Starting the morning without prayer is like starting a car without gas.

The ones with no imagination are always the quickest to justify themselves

Undervaluations caused by neglect or prejudice may persist for an inconveniently long time, and the same applies to inflated prices caused by over-enthusiasm or artificial stimulants.

There's no connection between al-Qaeda and Iraq.

I find that writing unit tests actually increases my programming speed

The opportunity for greater courage comes in the most ordinary of moments.

My concern was whether I could do the job of a justice well enough to convince the nation that my appointment was the right move.

Halfway measures are not enough.

Love is the funeral of hearts.