I live there...Far above the song-filled clouds, where the dewdrops touch my skin so bareI live there.

the intensityin your eyesburns my penas i write.

For it is up to you and meto take solacein nostalgia's armsand our abilityto create the everlastingfrom fleeting moments.

love wounds me with soft pillows with tender lips and fingers

I breathe in...the fragranceof love, and moist sandthe onehis roses lefton both my handsI just keep on breathingevery momentas much as I canpreserving it, in my bodyfor the dayit can’t.

Tell me..how do you stand there?filling the doorway....of my life.

I want to read every book that’s writtenhear every song that was sungI want to gaze at every cloudand hold the zing of each fruit on my tongue.

I realizedJune had never beenjust a monthmusic...never just a trembleon my lipswarmth was nevermerely a blanket.

I breathe in...the silenceof my own heartaching with tendernesswith memories..Of home.

kisses explode when... someone believes in me when my heart cries out a song of thanks to yours.

When I write...I am in the fond armsof a childhood friendupon whose colorful heart I can hang the charcoal drawingsof my woes.

The human psyche is a self-correcting mechanism.

As long as you are carrying a secret, as long as you are trying to ease your conscience by telling God how sorry you are, you are setting yourself up to repeat the past.

Winston Churchill - fifty per cent genius, fifty per cent bloody fool.

Many of the projects that we do that appear quite successful, it's actually often the second or third time we've given it a try.

The United States is a nation of laws: badly written and randomly enforced.

I'm a quiet person's nightmare - the only time I shut up is when I'm reading, because I'm a book geek.

When growing up, I saw segregation. I saw racial discrimination. I saw those signs that said white men, colored men. White women, colored women. White waiting. And I didn't like it.

I complain that the years fly past, but then I look in a mirror and see that very few of them actually got past.

I have sought for happiness everywhere, but I have found it nowhere except in a little corner with a little book.

It is not the passion of a mind struggling with misfortune, or the hopelessness of its desires, but of a mind preying on itself, and disgusted with, or indifferent to all other things.