And that is the nature of us poets and whores, to make things hard: dicks, choices... life.

I am a lover of words and tragically beautiful things, poor timing and longing, and all things with soul, and I wonder if that means I am entirely broken, or if those are the things that have been keeping me whole.

The tide has pulled the storm from my soul, again.

Sometimes love is nothing more than a sticky web; illusions spun from clever minds and bitter hearts.

Life is just a slide. Back and forth between loving and leaving, remembering and forgetting, holding on and letting go.

She's an old soul with young eyes, a vintage heart, and a beautiful mind.