Becoming a writer does not mean words will suddenly flow with perfection from your pen. It takes hard work, rejection, and the willingness to lay everything inside you out for the world to see.

Your dreams don’t stop being dreams because of circumstances.

They say, poetry is dead. I say, was there ever a time they had a clue of what the state of poetry is?

There is no value in your promises. They are as hollow as fangs and poisonous as the venom within them once I allowed them into my heart.

Each morning the winds of the city moan and weep with lost souls clinging to hope of reliving the memories of yesterday.

A poet’s words are like mortar to the bricks of society.

Never be an artist that starts worshiping yourself or believe your little group is better than anyone outside of it. For, you are nothing more than a grain of sand on a hillside in this world of ours. Even Da Vinci’s work is only glanced at then scrolled past on a phone or computer these days. Climb down off your throne and become humble once more.

Despair is a night without lights. Dreams are the sunrise that leads you out of the darkness.

History is the roadmap to a better tomorrow. Destroying it is getting rid of any chance of what not to do for future generations.