“Honey, you are a rose.”

And what shall I call you? Yours. In this life, the ones before, and all others thereafter.

The true masterpiece lies within me.

My roots touched mother earth and she blessed me with her color. Brown skin is beautiful.

Each kiss is my slice of heaven on earth.

My appetite for life has returned.

Eyes closed, hearts open. Vulnerable, I surrender. Trust fall, please catch me.

My flowers rot beneath my bed. I was too selfish to part with them. I hope their deaths don’t bring hexes. Did I say flowers? I meant my exes.

He pondered, what would make them believe in me? And God created women.

A creature lives deep within, rotting far beneath my skin. Touch the pain inside of me, just to let my heart be free.

I was born from nature therefore, I am art.

For my own sanity, I must love myself in an obsessive and urgent manner. My life depends on it. I am healing.

With all the secrets and lies you keep. Your beauty is only skin deep. Vamp.

Everything intensifies during a full moon. Your edge creeps up slowly on the awaiting shore.

Because of her, I know unconditional love. Because of him, I have learned to forgive. Life lessons from mom and dad.

If I can inhale I can speak up.

I am filled with mirth at my own rebirth.

As the sun shines both on the cedar and the smallest flower, so the Divine sun illumines each soul.

We may speak of love and humility as the true flowers of spiritual growth; and they give off a wonderful scent, which benefits all those who come near.

She’s got all the wildflower energy in her veins.

In search of my Love I will go over mountains and strands; I will gather no flowers, I will fear no wild beasts; And pass by the mighty and the frontiers.

Books are meat and medicine and flame and flight and flower steel, stitch, cloud and clout, and drumbeats on the air.

Come, see the true flowers of this pained world.

Happiness is within you… so unlock the chains from your heart and let yourself grow- like the sweet flower you are. I know the answer- just spread your wings and set yourself free.

The splendor of the rose and the whiteness of the lily do not rob the little violet of it’s scent nor the daisy of its simple charm. If every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its loveliness.