“You spent years planting red flags convincing me they were roses.”

I no longer know how to find myself under the weight of who I had to be.

In hard times stay soft.

What does a caged bird know about freedom?

Those who are capable of great love will always pay in great grief.

The snow will keep all of your secrets or none of them.

The contradiction of my lips so cold outside so warm within.

I am never going to stop trying to translate meaning from mundane.

I will bring you all of my dead flowers if you will breathe me a promise of spring.

Don’t talk to me like I am a lost little girl I am a wolf and these are my woods.

No matter the storm you are still standing to guide me home.

I am an expert at breaking my own heart.

The sun and moon are both awake, flirting from across the sky.

Without question, you have been the greatest adventure of my life.

There is no point in uprooting yourself to prove to others you can bloom.

The only thing that fills the void is pulling things out of it.

If it is love it is always enough love is a quality, not a quantity.

With freedom, flowers, books, and the moon, who could not be perfectly happy?

Normality is a paved road: It’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it.

For every drop of rain, a flower grows.

Raise your words, not voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.

Books are like seeds. They can lie dormant for centuries and then flower in the most unpromising soil.

When you’re surrounded by flowers, you breath better.

If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly our whole life would change.

We are dust and to dust return. In the end we’re neither air, nor fire, nor water, just dirt, neither more nor less, just dirt, and maybe some yellow flowers.