The pen, a double-edged mystery: cuts the writer, heals the reader.

My heart's been broken in a thousand pieces I've lived and died a thousand times And in each of those lifetimes With all of those pieces I chose you…A million times.

Walking away ends a battle in the heart of one, and starts a war in the soul of another.

As I read you I fell in love with the holes between your words and I loved you most on the days you could not love yourself.

I didn't want to sing. I wanted to be music.

I didn't want to sing.I wanted to be music.

The most beautiful things often stand alone.

I keep breaking things, as if to see what's going on inside of me.

We write to go on living, after we have died.

If God could transcribe my heart, it'd still read "I love you".

Poetry is a storm asking peace to dance with her.

Resilience, thy name is Devine.

Enemies can be an incentive to survive and become someone in spite of them. Enemies can keep you alert and aware.

I went through a phase of reading lots of Urdu poetry, thanks to the great transliterated versions that have become available.

I used to build up to sensation, accumulating tension until it released a perceptual experience

DaDa is beautiful like the night, who cradles the young day in her arms.

Now I know why the Lord took his day off on Sunday. That must be the day he personally greets his favorites.

Guns don't kill, people do.

You got to be careful to not get too comfortable with incremental improvement. I think sometimes you just got to jump off a ledge.

Wearing the right thing, at the right moment, could actually change your life.

We feel something like respect for consistency even in error. We lament the virtue that is debauched into a vice; but the vice that affects a virtue becomes the more detestable.