We don’t find love, love finds us. What you put out into the universe will find its way back to you.
This funny thing we call love, how simple it may seem. To say it is sometimes enough but to feel it is a dream.
Thou art but a feeble flower in the garden of the universe, yet thou hath a purpose much greater than thyself.
It matters not what my brain knows, but what my heart feels.
Every yesterday we lose ourselves so that we can find ourselves in tomorrow.
At times poems can be like riddles, too difficult to decipher or comprehend. But how else does one come to understand what can only be felt but not said?
Thou doth not know the tragedy of a tale between two hearts till the tears of a forgotten love dissolve into the scars of yearning and seep through the cracks of the broken, leaving behind a trail of crimson for all but one to see.
I spend my days trying to remember what only my soul knows but my mind can’t comprehend.
Let your emotions guide your hand to the paper and watch how your sorrows can turn into beauty. For tears relieve your body but writing relieves your heart.
Within the whispers of love, I found my heart. Within a glimmer from a ray, I found my soul. Within both, I found myself.