Tickle my heart with your pen. Write me for all to read. Bind our love inside a book. Make me your poetry.

Bruised, beaten, shaken, weakened, tossed, thrown, lost, alone, heard, helped, healed, hope... it still works.

If you say something as if it were, that isn't, is it considered a lie, or speaking it into existence?

Your heart beats between the palm of my hand.Its need to beOne with meDripsBetween my fingertipsAs I squeeze perfect drops of love into small receptacles to be preserved...For later. ☕️

I don't want what love is. I want what love is supposed to be.

Can still windmills, still produce wind? Can a heart still love, when a heart no longer is?

Tonight, can we just pretend that you want me too?

Tonight, can we just pretend you want me too?

As a man thinketh so is he? The faith of a mustard seed? I planted these words in my thoughts, and still, mind wound up lost, between my dreams and reality.

Your heart beats against the palm of my hand.Its need to beOne with meDripsBetween my fingertipsAs I squeeze perfect drops of love into small receptacles to be preserved...For later. ☕️

Tickle my heart with your pen. Write me for all to read. Bind our love inside a book. Make me, your poetry.

To the extent that we retain the critical attitudes and destructive elements we have incorporated into our own personalities, we remain undifferentiated from our parents throughout our lifetime.

The right vision to a wrong person is like the right seed to wrong soil.

I don't think about relatability (when writing), I think about the heart of the character.

Love grew commendably dependable - love was eggs, love was ham, love was the morning paper.

Youre always in a different headspace when you make each record, so hopefully theyre all different. You just pick up things that you wish you hadnt done on the first one.

I perceive everything to be constantly subjective and strange. My version of truth in what I express, it feels like that opaque quality that you're talking about. It's just me being legitimate.

Take a picture not a trophy This is how real men shoot animals

A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

I'm what they call the love addict!