When someone says they love you, don’t believe it. Love is shown with actions and not words.

I remember things like dates down to minutes, what they smelled like, how they walked and how they tug their hands in their pockets. I twine myself in nostalgia of moments and not necessarily the people in them. I long for the idea of the past and occasionally forget the present. I find myself lost in memories, just looking to recreate the moment; forgetting the past is in the past and what we have is now.

He wasn’t a good person, but I painted him to be and since I painted it, I believed it.

I love you, but I’m more in love with myself and that’s the problem.

Hallucinations aren’t always out of the ordinary. How do we know we’re not hallucinating if everything seems plausible?

I write in seconds. I don’t stop. I don’t think. I simply write and when it comes, it flows and it makes sense because it’s genuine. I don’t understand thought-out poetry. It doesn’t seem real to me.

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve, but you didn’t. So you move on.

Making love with strangers is how you get hurt.

The only reason time seems to be moving rather fast is that sometimes we’re too busy living in the past.