without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.

Poppies bleed petals of sheer excess. You and I, this sweet battle ground.

The best you'll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.

Don't hoard the past. Don't cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.

at least if you were ignorant you could do wat you wanted. you had no idea wat had been acheived in the past. you were free instead of chewed at by bleeding impotence, dissolved away like a pearl in acid

I wish my life could be like that, knotted up so that even if something broke, the whole thing wouldn't come apart.

It's such a liability to love another person.