One excuse, could destroy a multitude of chances.

If you are reading this, be sure to count this on your blessings list.

The paper is my savior, the pen my blood, to words that shed my world.

The paint is drying, and time is dying. The pain is crying, lying on my back, trying to get back the time, to brushstrokes too fast, wet went dry and love went dull; now I live in a portrait I never painted.

Faith is, believing there is still a star out there to wish on, just for you, tucked away behind dark clouds.

Before she cut her birthday cake, she cast a wish, then blew the candles out from his eyes.

I can have patience for anything, but it's waiting for love, that kills me a little each day.