“Stare hard at the hurt. Ask why it stings. Dig into the root and rip it out. It doesn’t have to stay there just because it grew there.”

And what happens when you run out of words? You listen. Deeply. To everything around you.

Maybe I am something special but nothing spectacular.

I am hell-bent on loving my hell.

Think of how good tomorrow might be.

I love my sadness because it is honest.

You write poems or you are a poem. That is where you’ll shine.

Your love is only as good as your intention.

Your trauma is never indicative of who you are and how well you deserve to be loved.

Meet me with authenticity or not at all.

Do you see who I am beyond your judgment? I lay with my core, and there is a force in there.

Don’t fear it. That pull between your heart and mind. It is trying to teach you. It is learning your language.

It’s hard to know who I am when who I am always swallows me whole.

If my skin is going to crawl, I pray it crawls into safer spaces.

I am learning that most of my fear of others is my own judgment of myself.

It is a valuable thing to learn the difference between who is in your corner and who is in your way.

Let your love be bigger than your anger.

My heart roams in the wild. A place where there is always room to grow.

Changes bring opportunity for growth.

You’ve retracted your rays of warmth. You’ve pulled the clouds to cover sunlight. I think everyone is growing more concerned as the days keep passing and you’re still absent.

I am learning to let go like autumn. I am learning to grow like spring.

I thought the answer was to bury the pain deep within, but nothing grows from grief.

You are right where you are supposed to be; growing, gracefully.

Human population growth is probably the single most serious long-term threat to survival.

I had shed my old skin so I could make room to grow into myself again.