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

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.

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

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

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

She will blaze through you like a gypsy wildfire. Igniting you soul and dancing in its flames. And when she is gone, the smell of her smoke will be the only thing left to soothe you.