Her skin is kind of sort of brownish, pinkish, yellowish white.
Her eyes are a brownish red, but they look orange in the night.
Her hair is a reddish brown, but it's darker when it's wet.
And all of the colors she is inside
have not been invented yet.

When I die, I wish to come back as one of her tears.
What man would be so lucky
as to have been conceived in her heart,
born in her eyes,
live on her cheeks,
and die at her lips?

All I do is act on my passions and they call it sin.
All I do is tell the truth and they call me a hypocrite.
All feel is pain and sorrow and they call it love.
All I do is pour my heart out to empty pages and they call it poetry.
~Benito Behar

When you come to the end of everything you know, and the next step is into the depths of darkness of the great unknown, you must believe one of two things: Either you will step out onto firm ground or you will be taught to fly.
~Claire Norris

It's no secret that a conscience can sometimes be a pest.
It's no secret, ambition bites the nails of success.
Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief,
all kill their inspiration and sing about the grief.