Category: Poetry

The more you love, the more you will hurt.

Nothing burns like the cold, The freezing of your soul Pains me more than you know, Heart’s death, so slow.

Do not mistake my confidence For mere arrogance: I have earned these scars.

When your friends are broken They will cut you When you try to pick up The pieces.

The writer perceives beauty, The subtle silent story And unsung poetry In all things.

There is no such thing as perfect love, Nor perfect writing. But with both I strive.

I will not “Honor your wishes.” I will not empower the addict. I will fight. I will fight you, And I will fight for you Because that is love. Even if you hate me For trying to save you From yourself.

We are the sculptor and the clay, Forming ourselves anew every day.

The deeper the dark, The clearer the light Burning deep Within the night.

I am not your enemy. I am the greatest ally Of the bright parts Of your soul, the heart Of your goodness, still In your breast. I hate the darkness clouding Your thoughts, your vision, Your being. And I will fight til the end For that light, flickering And dying in you my friend.