I could say the world is ending tomorrow, and no one would care. I could say the world will go forever, and no one would care. I could write words, words, words of hope, of love, of humanity, of peace, of pain and the world will still spin to unchanged tomorrows. The human heart balled up as a fist, just grows old clenching to life, to pride and ego, it won't let go. But the words slip through, as the last pump of blood to a lost web of veins.

One can talk good and shower down roses, but it's the receiver that has to walk through the thorns, and all its false expectations.

We hide our demons so good, that the angels we show, bare the shame on their faces.

Silent as a flower, her face fell in dismay, aware that the ghost of lust ate and left, sensing that there was a different scent of perfume consuming the room, and that she had numbered and counted the he loves me, he loves me not of each petal, where the lifeless dust had settle.

Suicide is a hasty unresolved death that slowly kills those close-by day by day.

For some soldiers, there is a greater war going on behind the gun's shadow of family and friends, than in front of the gun pointing at strange enemies.

It's better to look at a black and white world, rather than black and blue.

A tormented mind wants to forget, what a broken heart will always remember.

At the edge you will always remember me, at the edge you will last be remembered, where sanity and insanity come together, for the time, then separates. Like leaves on October trees, that color the world, but for a moment, then leave. At the edge, where life losses its edginess, and thoughts we will become one, someday. At the edge the sun drops, the ring falls, and senses of raindrops climb upwards to the gray sky.