Shane Koyczan Quotes

in the caves of my heart, where pain taps out its rhythms and sorrow sets its loss, i am without direction.

My heart beat Beats me senselessly Why's everything Gotta be so intense with me.

A brave heart? It feels like a swollen and aching thing in my chest.

You lit into me last night. You said what I did was stupid. - That's what my head said. But my heart... My stupid heart... Her voice broke. It was singing.

My heart's been torn wide open, just like I feared it would be, and I have no willpower to close it back up.

Indeed — why should I not admit it? — in that moment, my heart was breaking.

She went around with a broken heart, and she wasn't sure who'd broken it. She thought it was herself, mostly.

He was outwardly calm but inwardly bleeding to death.

I try to tighten my heart into a knot, a snarl, I try to learn to live dead, just numb, but then I see someone I want, and it's like a nail, like a hot spike right through my chest, and I know I'm losing.

And so this young one, this young one whom I had so loved, I had to forsake, no matter how broken my heart, no matter how lonely my soul, no matter how bruised my intellect and spirit.

The words went round and round and round in my mind and my body, until I knew they were no longer my words but something that had been carved into my heart. And now my soul was crying.

But can they [great works] get rid of the worm that lies gnawing at the roots of my heart? No, never.

I have laughed, in bitterness and agony of heart, at the contrast between what I seem and what I am!

But it's a sad man my friend who's livin' in his own skin And can't stand the company. Every fool's got a reason to feelin' sorry for himself And turn his heart to stone. Tonight this fool's halfway to heaven and just a mile outta hell And I feel like I'm comin' home.

We are not just Art for Michelangelo to carve, he can't rewrite the agro of my furied heart- Lady Gaga 10/22/10

Anger is the noise of the soul; the unseen irritant of the heart; the relentless invader of silence.

Grief is a bad moon, a sleeper wave. It's like having an inner combatant, a saboteur who, at the slightest change in the sunlight, or at the first notes of a jingle for a dog food commercial, will flick the memory switch, bringing tears to your eyes.

The dimensions of my feelings are too violent.

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter.

Sometimes my heart hurts so much, I beat it with my fists. I try to run. But you cannot run from this. It waits for you. Even when you think you have escaped it, it is there.

My soul is dark with stormy riot: directly traced over to diet.

If your heart is a volcano, how shall you expect flowers to bloom?