I hope you're doing well, but I also hope you're living in a veritable hell. And I really mean that.

I wish nothing but the best for you, I truly do, but I pray you're miserable; pray you're regretting.

You know that I'd **** for you, but without hesitation, I'd **** you too. I try not to play favorites.

I hope you sleep well at night, that you're warm and nestled tight. I want you to be stagnant and cold.

You know I hope you and him last forever, but also that his heart strings sever. While hiding ****** scissors behind my back.

I would go back for you, I know I should, but time has me by the throat like I knew it would. Strangle hold.

I wish I didn't mean these words, but one wish and they'd all come true. I want those past 5 years with you.

Your life is a border-line ***** film. Caught between bad angles, blurred shots, and this masked imagine of someone dying you just can’t get out of your head… but you keep watching anyways.

I heard a whisper in the night, so close it could have kissed my ear. But when I awoke to see who was calling, that echoed breath had disappeared.

I laid awake the better part of an hour, chasing the voice from my head. Because I knew that voice from years before, the voice of someone I thought long dead.

I rose from the nestled safety of my bed and walked over to the window pane. I knew if I were to open it for you, you just might leave me all the same.

I closed my eyes, still burning softly, and loosed a breath of mine. I felt it hang in the cold, night, air for a fraction of a moment's time.

A winter breeze came creeping in fetching chills to send through my core. And just when I thought that you had come and gone came the opening of my bedroom door.

It had slightly moved, arguably not at all, nudging urges of neurosis. But I still tasted you in mouth, a faint haunting of my psychosis.

Debating my sanity I queried out loud, "Are you back this time for good?" but nothing answered from the darkness of my room, just as nothing should.

So I closed my window, shook off the frost, and laid back down for sleep. But I couldn't help but feel a warmth already underneath my sheets.

Sixty-five percent of the time I just don't get it,
Thirty percent of the time I just don't care,
And the other five percent was never meant for me to know...
But the last five percent if he hardest for me to let go.

We tend to forget exactly where it was we came from.

Those people that died, those people that cried, they were real.

Move on, make more memories until you become one yourself, but never, ever, forget where you came from.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.