So I wrote to her.
Letters I never sent.
Letters I threw in the gutter or flushed away.

Poets never dress for winter.
But winter to them is no harm, for a poet's heart keeps him warm.

No matter where and when,
the classics always work.

He's been writing poetry and it made him nuts.

All wrapped up in your sad little stories, feeding off each other's misery.

I've kissed more bottles than people and honestly, a hangover hurts less than a heartbreak.

And not even love was the answer.

You deserve a lover who takes away the lies and brings you hope, coffee and poetry.

The finest souls are those who gulped pain and avoided making others taste it.

In our obsession with original sin, we too often forget original innocence.

My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.

I was created to be destroyed, meeting you was merely an excuse.

Noting is harder on the soul, than the smell of dreams, while they're evaporating.

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back, ceaselessly into the past.

The moment that an artist takes notice of what other people want, and tries to supply the demand, he ceases to be an artist.

Maybe the moon is beautiful only because it is far.

To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.

Originality bores her,
but her mind is lively.

Nobody wants to be here and nobody wants to leave.

All I need is a sheet of paper and something to write with, and then I can turn the world upside down.

As above so below, as withing so without, as the universe so the soul.