It is what it is and we are who we are and no measure of hope or time wasted wishing, will ever make it never so.

I promised to touch your soul. I never said it would be painless.

She will rise. With a spine of steel and a roar like thunder, she will rise.

If I could claw the words out of the back of my throat and give them, dripping of me, to you, we would talk of sticky hands, and the messes they make.

It's ironic, isn't it? How hope keeps us breathing just to kill us in the end.

She is of the strangest beauty and the darkest courage, and when she walks with intent the earth trembles beneath her feet.

And that is the nature of us poets and whores, to make things hard: dicks, choices... life.

The tide has pulled the storm from my soul, again.

They say she is too much to handle, but when the moon pulls the tide and the wolves howl her name, blessed are the ones who have been taken by her wild.

Dance with me.Bring my demonsto their knees.