Strangers Are Just Friends Waiting To Happen

I've Come To Terms With It, It Knows I Know.

There's No Misery In Not Being Loved, Only In Not Loving.

Poetry Is Fact Given Over To Imagery.

Extending Your Hand Is Extending Yourself.

I Cannot Speculate On What Our Cluttered Mind Will Save- Sleepy Sundays, Or A Nosebleed After Love. I Know Only The Dying Heart Needs The Nourishment Of Memory To Live Beyond Too Many Winters.