Elly Grey

But who writes for the poet?  Who writes to them when their words have finished and the ink has dried up?  Who inspires them again when all words are dead and gone?  Who shows them words that are just for them with each letter penned with adoration?  Who writes to the poet? 

People ruin things.  We ruin things.  But, do you know what?  You - I'd love to meet you again but we'd do things a little differently.  I wouldn't say 'hello' first and you'll never notice me.

 Just move on with pure intentions.  The things that don't matter will fall by the wayside.  

The setting Sun on a Winter's day, reminds me to nurture my heart.  To keep it warm and protected from external elements.  To not allow things to upset its equilibrium.  To maintain hope that there'll be light again tomorrow. 

Vision, ideas, dreams and destiny.  That's what I fight for.  The rest is noise.

"What do you crave?" "Hmmm? Solitude, just being there in the moment. Knowing that I do not need to be anywhere else. I crave quiet, so much quiet that I can hear my heartbeat. Peacefulness, so much, that birds sit with me. I crave that I do not need another, so I know not to give so much importance to them, or that my good mood relies on them. I crave I am happy in my own. Sufficient and honest enough to myself that I am all I ever need".

"You and me?" "You, me and bread and cheese, please..." "And the wine?" "Nah... A drink from your lips, drunk on your eyes".