This love we make, full of warmth, full of passion. This love we make, born of want and wishes. This love we make, causing anger and hate, tearing our worlds apart. This love we make, to want so much of, or to be so rid of

When you hold that knife, make sure
the blade faces....away. You wouldn't want
to cut your own throat.

The quiet man. Don't give him too much power. He won't be quiet anymore.

Even when you close your eyes against the world, the light still comes through.

Just breathing is a gift. And we've been given so many.
They are ofen seen as blessings.

Sometimes, one forgets the number.

Open your eyes, and see them look at you. Uncover your ears, and hear all the gripe. Sniff...and smell the flowers.

I hate this place.

Your eyes are closed. You can hear all that is around you. Everything is familar to you. So, open those eyes, and stop being a fool.

I look across the field, into the tall grass.
You stand there, looking back at me.
The sun is behind you, yet you cast no shadow. I wonder. Am I your shadow?

If I whisper to you, that you are nothing,
but a figment, of that chaotic, false colored, shadowed, fragmented mind of mine, will you hear me?
I fear that you are not even...real.

I hear your scream.
It does not scare me.

I feel your pain.
It does not phaze me.

I taste your blood.
It rejuvenates me.