There's just something so bittersweet about piano melodies and poetry that oozes sadness and lost memories.

I'm trying to do what's right. I'm trying to stay away. But my heart's too wild for those kind of intentions...

As often as I deny it, vulnerability can be a gift. It's something that another person remembers... it can make you stronger.

You are the only person I can write over thirty poems for, the muse no matter what time of night. After every conversation, I flee to my paper and pen because I don't know

(what else to do with you).

We remember

the emotional pain of love, and the physical joy it brought. The times we tried to nurse the holes in our souls.... the times our smiles dared to outlast the moonlight.

He shouldn't have to stand for you in order for your voice to be amplified for the audience. Channel your strength, raise your feet and step up to the mic. Touch the audience of reality.

Maybe talking to ourselves is not really trying to keep ourselves company, but trying to understand the silence, channel someone else's memory and presence from a distance.

Maybe talking to ourselves isn't a sign of insanity, but of sanity.

Day will come and you will have relief from the night's vicious grip. Hold on.

Some days, I choose to wear a mask because it's easier to be on stage then off stage, where I run wild without lines or direction.

The heaviness has lifted
in the hours past dusk,
and I don't know how long
it will last this time,
but I will try to hold on
to some remnant of it.