Ed Martin Quotes

Bran thought about it. 'Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?''That is the only time a man can be brave, ' his father told him.

That scream left her mouth and entered my head, where it's been ever since, sometimes waking me up at night.

When we protect ourselves from what we fear, we also undermine our capacity for wonder.

There is nothing wrong being different. Being peculiar actually makes you stand out from others.

Misery can be easily drown within a good tune.

When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.

Every great day has a story and a song!

Irritatingly angry people have no sense of humor when wearing their “angry pants.

On armageddon day, ' Sandy said, 'both armies will think they fight for good. And both of them will be wrong.

Gold has its uses, but war is won with iron.

Terrorism is the war of the weak and war is the terrorism of the strong.

I've left behind so many unfinished quilts in my life, beautiful pieces of dreams and intentions never fully assembled.

Every boy dreams of serving in the Kingsguard.

Dreams can lie, your Grace.

Sleep is a little death, dreams the whisperings of the other who would drag us all into the eternal light

Dreams turn to dust in light of day.

Though I exist in the realms of day and night, I'm only truly alive in the moments between.

And once the ripples still and the water returns to its unwavering calm, even the pebble that broke its surface will be forgotten. And the world will go on.

I was lost in the moments I decided to keep. To be awake in a dreamless sleep. And in that place between dream and sleep, I planted some more things I would like to keep.

She's an array of undiscovered words, of feeling beyond my threshold. I'm just a man, trying to hold himself together in her wake.

The flicker, the flutter, even thoughts can stutter.

It was her eyes. Soft, meadow-shade eyes with frostbitten edges. Every glance casually held gossamer infinity. Every stare revealed inky black abyss with a hint of divinity.

Woven words are little conviction when I present myself as a man of fiction.

She was carmine shadows reflecting from my crimson words. Every pulse sent a velvet ripple through the shade. Every breath, a scarlet pause.

With ravenous passion and reckless ambition he forged his thoughts into words, obsessed with the notion that dying would not be the last thing he would do.

He gave up. No hint of ember behind his eyes nor life in his breath. He snipped the last, overstretched strand of hope, and nicked the strand of life by mistake. He did it with his hands.

And though they fell as ashes, their shadows drifted as leaves.

She was poetry written in pen, scribbled and scrawled again and again.

She speaks in heartbeats and the rises of her chest, words forever seared in thoughts that will never rest.

He sang softly, less with words and more with thought. She cradled his head, stitching together his fragmented heart.

Adventures kept hidden, words kept silent. You became my greatest secret. And when you left, no one knew the source of the pain I felt. No one knew you existed, except my writhing heart.

That last bit of hope always lingered as a stubborn thread. Every time I would try to cut it I would feel it... a pulse. My pulse. My blood is hope.

I realized the world around me was fragmented and broken... I had to be gentle enough not to scrape against the jagged pieces. I would not be cut today.

She is beyond any mortal structure of words, yet she inspires the effort to try anyway.

That's what really broke me, she was better than any fantasy I could hope to imagine. I've spent my life creating, yet she was pristine the likes of which I could never fashion.

She was exactly right and wrong in the perfect sort of way. This kiss would be the first of many, she was the type of girl I would desperately fight for to stay.

She was the half-whispers born from half-thoughts, the half-breaths of dying half-hearts.

You are whole today, looking back at fragments of the past. Such a hollow foundation for such a powerful person.

All my past heartache and pain suddenly made sense. That was who I would not be to the person who deserves the best of me.

It was the end for something. It was the beginning for another. But in reality it just fell in the middle. In that confusing moment of time between my birth and my death.

I always thought time was the most valuable currency, but I realized the people we spent our time on and loved us back, that love held even more meaning to me.

I was burdened with an ever-growing heart on the verge of decay. To save myself, I had to give many pieces of my love away. I hope I can give it all to someone, someday.

It was a slow fall, through warm experiences and good laughs. It didn't even feel like love until I got to the end. Even then, it was not the hard surface of rock, but the scorching embrace of more.

I wanted to know every story behind the scars on her curves. I wanted to decipher the whispers hidden beneath her every breath. I wanted to unravel her with my hands.

They surrounded me, bare me. Their fingers like tentacles and their desires like knives. Their fingers traced my secrets and their desires carved my skin.

Inside, my soul is curled tightly bearing the burden of massive sins from another life. And my eyes look far at the hell around me... a sharp grin tugs at the corner of my lips.

And in my novels I live many lives. Substitutes of spontaneity to replace a dreary reality. How I live for those inky black words and kaleidoscope colored experiences.

I wear my past around my shoulders as a fine, but worn, cloak. Don't be fooled by my cloak's appearance, I have a three piece underneath.

I was the wings that kept her aloft, while the churning sea of reality nipped at her feet. I kept her from drowning, but I still felt bad, that her toes had to experience such dreadful cold.

Everyone is their own, though they are so alone. They all sit on their imagined thrones, made only of their own bones. Ego and pride make exquisite delusional cushions.