“Its about time we stopped writing our names the sand and started writing our names in the stars.”

Who would you be if you were not afraid?

Choose to celebrate your dead ends as much as you celebrate your turning points.

I Have been lost more times than I can count. But, oh, it is surely the times that I’ve been found that matter more.

Don’t focus so hard on creating your best life that you wind up missing your life along the way.

The best way to take it easy is to go easy on yourself.

It feels like I ran into November, So now I walk until December.

I’m not in love yet, but when I am, I hope it feels like october.

In learning to love myself, the biggest thing I learned is no one else can teach me how.

I dare you to run to the edge of your limits – and then jump.

Sundays are for moving gently, breathing softly, and living slowly.

I hope you know that even on days you don’t feel whole – you are enough.

When you learn to belong to yourself, everywhere you go will feel like home.

The miracle you’re looking for? It’s you.

You owe it to yourself reach for the stars and not just the low hanging fruit.

Self Love is not apologizing for taking care of yourself.

You can be playful with your life, or you can just watch your life play out. Which will you choose?

Like her name, some people are best left scrouged on the skin.

Some rhyme a neebor’s name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash; Some rhyme to court the countra clash, An’ raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun.

I wanted to know the name of every stone and flower and insect and bird and beast. I wanted to know where it got its color, where it got its life – but there was no one to tell me.

A poet’s work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep.

Once you start changing a name, you see, there’s no reason ever to stop. One always hears one that sounds better.

Tear me open and I will bleed in your name. My heart aches from your absence, but in the aching and breaking is where my art is born.

There’s not much I know about forgetting. By which I mean I can hear her name from a distance; and it still breathes cold in my chest.

This ‘missing you’ It begs for water; it cries your name.