she lived with hurricane eyes and fell in love with the way the waves collapsed against her cheeks.

And in the end, we were all just humans.. drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness.

Sometimes I sit alone under the stars and think of the galaxies inside my heart and truly wonder if anyone will ever want to make sense of all that I am

It was rather beautiful: the way he put her insecurities to sleep. The way he dove into her eyes and starved all the fears and tasted all the dreams she kept coiled beneath her bones.

She writes things with her movements that I for the life of me could never write with a pen.

She stared at the stars like they were pillow for her mind and in their light she could rest her heavy head.

Tears are the silent passion for suffering

My hunger for writing will die when I have bled for the humans that never found the strength to find the words themselves

Nothing brings to life again a forgotten memory like a fragrance.

Ears for wisdom, hands for work, eyes for opportunities, and a mouth for thanks.

It's strange how easily we assume that others must be going in the same direction as us.

Taste refers to the past, imagination to the future.

I think that you can't choose leadership. You have to deal with the leadership that the people respond to.

I was always trying to do things to make school fun.

Not trying to be arrogant, but if I walked down the street and a girl saw me, she might take a look back because maybe I'm good-looking, right?

I like a brother that cuts to the chase.

I'm a pretty harsh critic when it comes to my own stuff or things that come from my work.

A recurring ideal, I find, is that of simplicity. At times there comes the desire to write with great precision and clarity, words so simple and moving that they bring tears to the eyes.

I want to say that I cannot be intimidated or stopped. In order to put an end to various attempts to get rid of me as a possible candidate, I want to say that I'm running for president.