A.P. Sweet Quotes

The moon makes love to the ocean and in this holy conception it gives birth to a little tide.

I want to towel off, leave my heart on this beach and walk the sand into a lake of stars, while never looking back.

i witness the birth of the moon and her servants walking the night sky pulling us into their wake

the heavens raped from our misuse of love

runaway my phantom bride and take your bouquet of poisonous flowers float away specter and take the rest of my desire

And like my comrades, I too have tasted the bittersweet assurance that I would be okay with myself. And like so many others out there, I have given that dream away to the wind and its power over the trees.

I would give my lungs to the fish so that they may rise out of the water and feel the wind.

shall we dance into the perpetual torture of our union once more?

I cry as the laughter inside me drowns and descends into the water with the ghosts of our union.

where does it derive its strength? is it the blood soaked soil? or the fear stained heart?

Sadness is a moment in which the world took something from you. Depression is a lifetime of torment no matter what is said or done.

Caress me sister wind and stop this hate.

Then, only then would she realize that the life that she created will extinguish with nothing to offer but the sorrow that she harvested in our souls and the holes that she dug in our hearts.

I spread my fingers outward, letting the knife tip of my middle finger rip the sky as it tares a rift in the moon.

Blood and wine are interchangeable. Love and hate are unrecognizable. Sanity is no longer with me.

We make our own music. We paint our own future.

A good student learns from his teacher. A great student learns to teach himself.

We learn that all life is scarce yet abundant. Profane yet sacred. Loving yet hateful. Enlightened yet obscured. Isolated yet collective. That life is somehow derived from love.

I would give my heart to the religious so that they may realize that god hates us all.

Leave me to die a lonely death. An artist’s death. A writer’s playground. A painter’s background. A philosopher’s bread and butter.An endeavor that we all face. I just hope that I’m not the only one there.

Out here, the open night is my church, the trees are my congregation, the stars are my angels and the moon is the only god that I know.

at night i loved her at night i waited under the tarp at night i watched her looking up at the stars dreaming of a better time to watch me

I kiss the soil as if it is the last time I will recognize the beauty she has given the trees.

Her eyes burn like a match head striking my flesh with ferocity and precision to ignite the night with a divinorum induced dream.

I sense him smiling and laughing and looking at me with eyes of a thousand aborted children coming back to rightfully claim their life, to claim the earth.

I wrote because of their inability to nurture me. I wrote to conceal the truth that life was filled with pain and that true beauty could only come from that pain. I wrote to simply disguise that pain.

Sometimes at night when the moon is almost full and my hands go numb from writing, I cleanse myself of her poisoned love. I welcome the water, the inevitability of death and embrace the long painful road out of love.

I rise from the moist crevice of thought, I beat on the shores of her holy body, I fall from the sky in silver sheets of sadness. Rise onto me my precious sun.

And if I consume another mortal’s flesh, will I like god before me, shit a million stars upon the naked, wretched sky?

awake, then die in the arms of a modified lover sleep, then dream in the absence of a tangible lover envision, then sing in the thralls of a hungry lover

And now that this body is gone and has been returned to the Earth, I assure everyone that psychic energy doesn’t die, it is recycled throughout the universe and will out live anything that we do as living beings. Flesh will decay, ideas won’t as long as you believe in them and someone believes in you.

My thoughts are with you all. Forever conscious of the vast, absurd universe and writing my eternal story I shall remain dead, but dreaming.

I cry often. I cry and cleanse my face with my tears and swim to the center of it all. A center that I have written about a thousand times, forever etched into the porcelain.