The man is either mad or he is making verses.
I became an artist because I wanted to be an active participant in the conversation about art.
In the very end, all we have left to atone for our faults are words.
You're back where you swore yourself you wouldn't beThe familiar shackles you can't tell from your own skinYour head's under water when you learned to swimOn a road to hell, congratulations, you're fr...
I want to think about trees. Trees have a curious relationship to the subject of the present moment. There are many created things in the universe that outlive us, that outlive the sun, even, but I ca...
Music does not need language of words for it has movements of dance to do its translation.
We are all born as storytellers. Our inner voice tells the first story we ever hear.
Some writers write to forget. Some forget to write.
Poetry is jealous of you tonight, for as soon as I come to pen a few words, your perfume attacks me in the most civilised manner and I forget myself. I forget the poem. I forget the ...
She might not have read many books. But when she reads a book, she swallows the very words. If you open the books on her shelves, you will find that the front and back covers encase white pages.
our love likestepping on to a planesitting down in a carwalking on unknown land will either take us to where we belongor throw us into darkness