Your words on the screen are my color palette I dip my brush into your words and paint youOn the sky, on the ceiling, on the snow; on the tabletOf things eternal : love truth beauty happiness

Sometimes, when inspiration runs dry, I drink classical music until my words spill out.

I spent all nightweaving a poem for you to wear. You look so beautifulwhen you wear my light.

Reading poetry is like undressing before a bath. You don't undress out of fear that your clothes will become wet. You undress because you want the water to touch you. You want to completely immerse yourself in the feeling of the water and to emerge anew.

Ô, the wine of a womanfrom heaven is sent, more perfect than allthat a man can invent.When she came to my bed and begged me with sighsnot to tempt her towards passion nor actions unwise, I told her I’d spare her and kissed her closed eyes, then unbraided her body of its clothing disguise.While our bodies were nude bathed in candlelight fineI devoured her mouth, tender lips divine;and I drank through her thighs her feminine wine.Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent,more perfect than all that a man can invent.

Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent,more perfect than all that a man can invent.

You cannot free someonewho is caged intheir own self.

Destruction wasn't when you chose to destroy me.It was when i let you.

I was lost for too longbut when i found you,i could feel it in my bones.You were my home.

Take me to your darkest cornersand watch your demonssurrender to mine..

Master the art of selfloveand you will never have to seekvalidationever again.

I am no one's to be claimed,I belong to me.

I stopped losing my sleep over you...Now i lie awakein search of me!!

It's okay darling,creative people are called crazyall the time.

I write because the security of your love allows me to develop my craft without concerning myself with trivialities — as if your love could be any more complete. But I write, in the first place,because of you, my muse. I write for your green eyes to glance at my humble words and for the pleasure of hearing you utter them.

Poetry isn’t an island, it is the bridge. Poetry isn’t a ship, it is the lifeboat. Poetry isn’t swimming. Poetry is water.

These poems are cupsthat I pour my life into.Here, Drink!

Sit here, so I may writeyou into a poem and make you eternal.

I don’t want to be remembered for my work. I want to be remembered for my love.

All I need to dois place my pen against paperand your lovewrites for me.

A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride—and spaces—the groom,she knows that as soonas she has penned the poem,it’s yours to consume.So, without giving it a think,she blows on the inkand the letters fly awaylike dandelions on a windy day,landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips.But more often than not,you can easily spotthem trodden and forgotten,becoming sodden and rotten.Yet, she will continue to makewhat’s others to takebecause selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

Think I'll miss you forever,Like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky.

Is it not enough to dip your tongue into my soul and write poetry?

I hide myself behind, a cloud of smoke; the smoke screen varies, dependent on the variable. The variable consists of: stress, anguish, boredom, madness, anger, depression, apathy, negativity, sex, violence & a little chunk of chaos.

A poetess is a collection of unfinished thoughts. She is a tormented phantom, a harbinger of life and death. Those who peer deep inside her catacombs will learn that even madness is a virtue.