Despair is a night without lights. Dreams are the sunrise that leads you
out of the darkness.
They say, poetry is dead. I say, was there ever a time they had a clue of
what the state of poetry is?
I was a poet. I had no expectations other than creating a world of art
with words that would live on long after I was gone.
There is no value in your promises. They are as hollow as fangs and
poisonous as the venom within them once I allowed them into my heart.
For the writer, madness should seep slowly out of them from the world
they endure each day.
As a writer, a poet, you’re not alone in wanting to be alone. Your work
is a friendship that never leaves you.
I asked my father if we were rich or poor when I was a small child. He
said, “We were rich with God’s love.” I knew from that moment forward, we were
broke.
Destroying the planet is like stepping from a moving train and thinking
it will all work out.
Your dreams don’t stop being dreams because of circumstances.
Poets, with no sponsors, no agenda, are the truest form of freedom today,
bleeding out every drop of themselves for the world to either hate or devour.
Each morning the winds of the city moan and weep with lost souls clinging
to hope of reliving the memories of yesterday.
History is the roadmap to a better tomorrow. Destroying it is getting rid
of any chance of what not to do for future generations.
A poet’s words are like mortar to the bricks of society.
Becoming a writer does not mean words will suddenly flow with perfection
from your pen. It takes hard work, rejection, and the willingness to lay
everything inside you out for the world to see.
