The sick feeling was the virus of love grown into a moldy mess. The wish to be someone else and disapear. When the heart is cold and damp a seed germanates.

Paint it bright and then it's better, give it love and even more better. Change the world with brush strokes.

I know this might be hard to take: I will be publishing about the HOLOCAUST till the end of the year. Hope it is medicine, not pain.

She ran up the stairs and fell upon the door which broke to pieces and stood upon the tall hill with blood on her hands looking down upon smaller hills and dafodills.

I believe the hate will mostly end because of how wrong and distasteful it is.

Why is creativity often dark? It is the easiest opening for it. That doesn't make it better. No, it is often second rate work.

The crime against humanity that left a stigma for everyone.

A poet sees a poem as a window which suddenly gets a shaft of light coming at the eyes, and is captured in ink.

There is a big difference between destroying evil and creating good.

Her flaming lips bit into mine and drew blood, she had not any though, neither control nor heart, but cold stone, her eyes icicles, nothing but empty holes, the pain of light that once once, eating at her mind.