“Wouldn’t it be a different world if love passed as freely through us as money passes through hands.”

If I could stitch these wounds with letters every scar would bear your name.

If truth be known it is not all about rainbows sometimes eyes of melancholic skies still shine they still find light and color despite the sky.

Isn’t it a lovely thing watching flowers greet the wind as if a gentle kiss is all they need to dance.

I’m like a lost bird. My wings are not broken, but my heart is. Love always kept me flying. But now, love is what keeps me still.

Sometimes our greatest strength is our greatest weakness sometimes to love is to fall.

I’ve painted stars around tears that I’ve cried. And now my pain is a galaxy and every star has a name and every name feels like pain and you’re every star.

The sun never gets tired of kissing the sky, goodnight. And my heart will never tire of a love, like that.

She fades away falls behind the curtain of the night and retreats beyond the darkness as though she is gone for good. Yet, she always returns. And so does, love.

Snow relies on branches much like I rely on love but snow knows how to let go and I know how much it hurts.

Dawn breaks and this heart breaks, too. Yet the sun continues to rise and this heart of mine knows only of the journey down, like an eclipse of the heart.

Pain made me grow in the most unexpected places. And now I know what it feels like to be a wildflower.

I wish for a world where our hearts could be seen on the outside and we acred more about what our love looked like than our faces.

I am not scared of what I may find within the darkness of this forest line. But I do fear what the wild may find in me. I do fear that kind of vulnerability.

It was meant to be just rain, that went away. Yet we became the storm, of yesterday.

We are much like the nights sky, the big things draw our attention. But its the little things that really light us up.

I’m holding onto you, like a cloud holds rain. Knowing at some point I must let go. But waiting for the perfect storm, that will make it so much easier.

The person I am in the company of my sisters has been entirely different from the person I am in the company of other people. Fearless, powerful, surprising, moved as I otherwise am only when I write.

How different each death is, and yet it leads us into the self-same country, that country which we inhabit so rarely, where we see the worthlessness of what we have long pursued and will so soon return to pursuing.

The same image that I have of all the countries where I am supposed to go: it’s far, it’s different, it will be necessarily complicated, It’s another part of the world for me coming from the United States.

For those who want some proof that physicists are human, the proof is in the idiocy of all the different units which they use for measuring energy.

I wonder why it is that we find some days so much more oppressive than others, for no apparent reason. Is it growing pains – or spiritual trial? Once they’re over, the world looks quite a different place again.

I feel I’m at the end of something – everything is going to be different – and terrible.

Doing good and being good; are two different things. The first is a shirt we put on, take off. The latter is our skin.

I was born in St. Louis, but I’m from Maplewood, New Jersey. Maplewood is completely different than the rest of New Jersey. It’s very small. It’s quietly affluent but more low-key. Lauryn Hill is from my town, though.