Poetry is our heart, our spirit, our soul. Call it whatever; without it, everything else is nothing but hardware.

Hot air expands, and seriously pompous attitude is the inflation of choice by those lacking substance.

Any time a body goes outside the environmental conditions for which it developed it has to acclimate.

Life is a canvas of many strokes where shades from different palettes meet into a picture so concrete that some forget it is their own, so become framed themselves.

Only Love conceives things worthy enough to stand greater than individual accomplishment.

Purity of heart is blooming the same colors in the middle of the wilderness when no one sees you.

Anger is a wound gone mad.