I balance you on the end of my pen.Teetering between loveand letting go.

Through windows, in wishing wells, whispering in the wind...that's where I find you.

In that wounded place, buried betweenmy ribs and letting go, I miss you.

I die a little, In the echo of your silence.

I was just an option.Blown easily to piecesand offered to the skyby the sweet laced painupon your lips.

I can't love anymore.Except for you...I love you so much it hurts to breathe.

Bridge burned from end to end, and I don't miss you anymore.You delivered silenceI've birthed freedom.

You are the poemthat sticks in my throatteaching me to whisperwith the voice of my heart.

I've never seen beauty so devastatingas in the linesthat trace our hopeand fall from the stars.

Steep fall to the groundshatteringlike clay pigeons missed by bad shotsand unsteady hands.

Broken.As I search for hope, In the same eyesI lost it.

Beautiful feelings soar freely, while true care roots deeply. Real love can only bedefined by them both.

I'm not here only just for a visit

I remembered every moment between us, and every moment felt more precious as time passed.

Three years after starting, by physically doing everything from raising the finance to special effects, we'd finally cobbled together our low budget film.

Posterity preserves only what will pack into small compass. Jewels are handed down from age to age; less portable valuables disappear.

Do nothing to merely interest, assume or attract. This is not your province. Do only that wins the people you are after in the cheapest possible way

Pain is not wat you get, it is wat you give.

When you're on your deathbed you probably aren't counting the movies you've made.

Present suffering is not enjoyable, but life would be worth little without it. The difference between iron and steel is fire, but steel is worth all it costs.

Language is the machine of the poet.