“The day I made peace with my pain was the day I was born again.”

I count the stars from whence we came. I name them all for you; my flame.

When you focus on directing your energy away from harm and toward healing, you feed the soul and starve the ego.

Light finds you just as I once did: an accident that is no accident.

Let yourself go a little wild, a little rough around through the edges; the human spirit wasn’t meant for carefully-curated perfection.

I erected cities with adoration on my tongue and you burnt mine down in the wake of your love.

You could not keep me fed by throwing me bones and empty promises. I am ashamed to admit how much starving I did before I finally left.

Can hope bloom in the shade? Can time give back what it takes away? I once saw the answers to life in your eyes; now I can remember the words to goodbye.

In the absence of you I look to the moon and pray that the stars light my way, too.

If we are what we love, Then I am whatever you are made of.

I fall headlong into everything that lights me on fire. I know not of restraint. I was born to burn.

Anxiety is living with an apple on your head and you imagine that everyone you know stands watching with a bow to shoot an arrow at it.

The stars are where we came from. They orchestrated our return to the place we can always come home: our ancient, timeless love.

You are what it feels like to watch the final silvers of sun fall and die into the silver ocean; tangerine sky giving way to moon-glow and starlight.

We weren’t written in the stars; all that glitters wasn’t ours.

Last night, I sent you home with a kiss and a promise. I hope you still believe in roses.

Our story bleeds from my eyes until I cannot tell the stars from streetlights.

The greatest ideas, the most profound thoughts, and the most beautiful poetry are born from the womb of silence.

If men found out how to give birth to children they’ll never propose again.

Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night.

I wasn’t born with enough middle fingers.

And better had they ne’er been born, Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.

Where were you born?” “On a battlefield,” [Yossarian] answered. “No, no. In what state were you born?” “In a state of innocence.

The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.

He who desires, but acts not, breeds pestilence.