A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he's still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he's still left with his hands
The kind of love letters I write are the ones you read in bed, stretched out under the sheets with one hand between your legs.
People fall so in love with their pain, they can’t leave it behind. The same as the stories they tell. We trap ourselves.
But let the business of our life be love: These softer moments let delights employ, And kind embraces snatch the hasty joy.
So embarrassing when you stare into the abyss and the abyss stares back at you so you wave but the abyss was staring at the dude behind you.
I love words that are out of context best, just waiting to be consumed and loved absolutely.