Best 62 quotes of Justin Wetch on MyQuotes

A fire burns in the evening sky Breaking like an egg in a pan A sea of yellowish orange spreads In accordance with divine plan.  Vibrant paint drips to the edge Of ashen clouds drifting past The sun is a messy painter Every brush stroke massive and vast. The clouds are like matches Starting as fiery flame Then fading to ashes  A burning passion, tamed.  The red, orange, yellow leaves On the ground in this season Reflect the colors of the sky, and The sunlight that used to feed them.  A September sunset beaming  Down as a sailor's last call A herald for the coming winter A message, enjoy the fleeting fall.

A real patriot wont pretend everything is fine Sit back in an arm chair and blissfully recline While the streets burn I’ll point out the signs And maybe we’ll fix this country of mine.

Are we like two stars in a constellation Seeming so close And making so much sense Yet in reality We are separated by lightyears And shall never meet? Except, perhaps In that sacred space Between dreams and reality Called hope.

As a kid, I never was the type to color in the lines. I used to wonder, why do the lines even exist? When these pictures in my head are ripe for harvesting And I can give the world something it’s never seen before.

As artists, we create the beauty We are too afraid to live out And search, but always fall just shy Of finding what life is about.

As joy dwindles with the years I wistfully recall When the christmas tree Looked ten feet tall And the presents under it Seemed endless And more Than mere wrapping paper.

At least I find solace in searching.

Call me obsessed, color me consumed I’ve always been the type to notice The smell of a rose in bloom, But let me confess, this is new You’ve stopped my heart, let it resume And I, to finish, must tell it true I’m high on your perfume.

Every breath we take from the air Takes oxygen from an insect’s lungs mid-prayer And every exhalation does loudly declare That in the currency of life, we’re millionaires. A butterfly flapped it’s wings and Rome fell A passerby’s whistle cracked the liberty bell And I dare urge the daring not to yell Lest we so bid a skyscraper a rough farewell. A snake’s tongue slithered and man did sin Let me tell you how the waves from a shark’s fin Did set the tides on D-Day and let the allies win; Chance and destiny are identical twins. A word was spoken and the earth created Another phrase and the future was dictated And so every action must be carefully weighted We just never know how things are interrelated.

Fate is the cruelest of masters, taking Life when it pleases or at random, handing Rigged decks to whom it pleases, cheating All alike and none the wiser, taking Everything away from those with nothing.

Forgive often and completely.

I came up with a new reason To write your name today I plagiarized each letter From a love note you wrote me. The scent of ink was sacred to me In that relapsed moment… For a minute I could pretend The paper reminded me of your skin; I could pretend the glimmering ink Was the moonlit lake Of our summer night. But the pretending crumpled with paper And I threw us into the trash can For the bridge between us is long burned And it’s time I accepted that.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't want you I'd be lying if I said I didn't wish you were mine The truth is, you stole my heart from afar The truth is, you still have it.

I don’t want safety or guarantees— I want a life worth living. I want to jump off a skyscraper And fashion a parachute on the way down Out of my fears and trepidations Because sometimes survival Isn’t the most important thing And surviving Isn’t the same as living.

I find it interesting that by saying to someone “you just realized that you’re breathing”, you immediately cause them to go from breathing automatically and subconsciously to having to control their breathing manually and consciously. This is the power of words. It is a real, physical power— somehow, when we flop our tongues around in specific ways, audio waves are created that, when interpreted by the ears of another person, cause a real, physical change in that person such as I described above.

I found a night’s sky full of stars In your cinematic eyes And heard a symphony In your laughter.

I like to imagine That when we look upon A pitch black night’s sky And ignorantly label it colorless Is it actually filled with all the colors We could never even imagine.

I look up upon a sparsely starred abyss Having wandered to this street corner In the middle of the night Watching the cars and people go by Wondering If this deep, black nothingness Is the sum total of being human.

In vain I try to jump into the photo To create again a time so simple That a piece of paper might encapsulate it From the erosive winds and waves of time Which bring even the greatest of loves to a grave of dust.

I often wonder and imagine What lies just beyond the fringe Of the human experience; What is it that we do not see?

I remember sitting in bed, as a child looking up at the ceiling I couldn’t sleep, of course, And so set about to thinking I wondered, what are dreams made of? Are they stardust and galaxies? Are they the tendrils of existence Reaching inwards from eternity?

It is such a pity how some people Are dead long before their hearts stop beating.

I’ve always hated it when authors seem to find joy In killing my favorite characters. With gleaming eyes they toy With turmoil in every chapter. Just when they’ve got you attached To the character’s quirks and flaws To their words and their demons Just when you’ve fallen in love With the character’s identity— With a cruel turn of the lip The author smirks and kills them off And at our gasped pleas, merely scoffs. But the author was God And my favorite character was you And I still can’t believe You’re gone.

I’ve been worried since I left the womb Like a schizophrenic on shrooms Like a hypochondriac on crack Never shy with the panic attacks; Internal reality succumbs to psychosis Dreams destroyed by self-diagnosis.

I wish I could see butterflies burst from cocoons Without tempering my amazement Knowing all beauty eventually dies.

Let us love like the spark Between flint and stone In reckless abandonment, Promising no eternities, But promising only to seek out Upon each day’s sunrise Something to choose to love In each other.

Like two stars in the depths of the sky This gravity is just irresistible We spin around each other, you and I When I fell for you, I fell into your orbit.

Love gives the best of highs But also the worst of hangovers.

Love is dead And we are each to blame When we took lighters over wild flame.

Love is just two people Plastering perfect masks On each others’ faces; And it only lasts Until the masks crack And the fantasy ends.

Love is the poetry of the stars The wind is the breath of the earth To never become who you are Or to change at all, which is worse?

Love starts as a feeling, But to continue is a choice; And I find myself choosing you More and more every day.

My past self would've hated who I am today And I still feel that hatred in the parts of him that stayed

Our minds are tinderboxes Hungering to be lit aflame Our stances are paradoxic Preferring cuts to mental pain

Pressure knocks at my door A clock ticks and demands its due The lava burns from the floor But not in a game like it used to. So little time to figure it all out So many distractions to prevent success I’m in a dark forest with no path or route But this internal fire knows no rest.

Question marks are met with periods By people full of arrogance They have every answer, nothing mysterious And yet they have no evidence.

Real life is just another stage. Just another stage where I have to look and act Like I have everything put together; everything neat, perfect, and in order, when in reality I’m slowly dying, Slowly decaying, screaming and clawing, at this little box I’ve been put into,  Trying desperately to escape.

Sleepless nights Spent looking at the ceiling Searching in those etched patterns For some sort of adhesive To glue together the broken pieces Of a soul crushed By the weight of the fact that Life is profoundly sad.

Society is a vicious rubber stamp Labelling and assigning camps But love is an illuminating lamp.

Sometimes it feels like even if Every inch of my skin was touching yours I still wouldn’t be close enough to you.

That’s what comes of overthinking things. On a more pragmatic level, we do things simply because we do them. I wrote this book because I couldn’t not write it. To stop myself from creating art would be as absurd as changing my personality and mannerisms entirely to become a wholly different person.

The pulpit is beautifully furnished and bright But it's rotted in places not seen by the light

The rays of sun spilled Like coffee into a pot Gently, warmly flowing Almost as an afterthought. The morning dew melted to vapor Rising into a morning mist As the supple steam rose from the cup And with the breeze, was dismissed. I took my mocha with extra cream As clouds drifted across the sky Forming thick, bushy clumps Becoming one with the liquid nearby. I took my first sip As sun crested horizon The heat nearly burnt my lips As blue sky began to lighten. I sighed with contentment Enjoying the myriad flavors The coffee swirled and mixed Rhythmically as the light wavered.

There are seven billion faces smiling in as many ways But if I don’t see yours, I consider it a wasted day.

There is no change within a society that does not begin within an individual.

The scales of justice are tilted by money It's rather ironic but far from funny The powerful get cuff links, not handcuffs While prison bars make others' hands rough.

These colorful polaroids Are like magical portals Leading to places, emotions, and people Who had slipped into the midst of the forgotten, Into the odd ether of willful omittance.

The stars stare back In that deep, Soul-shattering blackness And from the depths of existence Comes a cruel, icy wind Raising the hairs On the back of your neck And suddenly it feels Like you’re walking a tightrope Over that endless abyss On one sad, fraying, thin Violin string.

They give us eighteen years To figure out how to spend our lives; We’re pushed towards high-paying careers At the cost of letting our dreams die.

This piece of inked paper stands a colossus A monument to a string of moments once dear; The only surviving testament to a time When these background bridges remained unburned, Before they became so much unswept rubble.