“Cry it all out darling because sometimes what you need is a good cry.”

Do not despair. The storm shall pass and the sun shall rise once more.

Choose peace over temporary pleasure.

Hang in there darling. The rain is necessary for the flower to fully grow.

Never let anyone mask their misbehavior towards you as authenticity.

How pleasant would it have been if our sorrows drowned themselves in our pellucid oceans of saline tears, beauty knows no limits.

Every album has its sad songs and happy songs.

Rain is the warm softness of a mother’s hand as she soothingly dabs that nasty smelling ointment on that bruised kneecap of yours, her delicate features creased with worry.

Her eyes sparkled with diamonds of hope and burned with fires of raw passion.

Your act of kindness towards someone could be the highlight of their day.

Don’t be afraid to bloom even in the darkest of times, just like moonflower blooms in the depths of the night.

You could see a butterfly as just a butterfly, or you could see it as an iridescent flower amidst the endless periwinkle blue skies.

Let the rainbows of hope kiss some color back into your numb cerulean heart.

Just like roses come with thorns, beauty comes with flaws. You could be the only rose in someone’s life full of thorns.

Each sunrise is a new chance to make your life the one you always dream of.

You healed my broken wings with your soothing love and taught me how to fly again one step at a time.

Water your scars with self-love and watch them bloom into flowers of strength.

Sometimes crying or laughing are the only options left, and laughing feels better right now.

Do I look like I’ve been crying?’ I say. ‘Hmm.’ He leans in close, narrowing his eyes like he’s inspecting my face.

Providing – that’s not love. Being there – that’s more important. I mean, we see that. We see that with all these rich socialites. They’re crying out for attention; they’re hurting for love. I’m not being judgmental.

I stand in the mist and cry, thinking of myself standing in the mist and crying, and wondering if I will ever be able to use this experience in a book.

I remember being about six years old, for the first day of school, and sitting in the back of a Chrysler, pretending to cry while listening to Tracy Chapman.

Serve you right if something did get you, you useless lot of cry-babies!

I’m worth more dead than alive. Don’t cry for me after I’m gone; cry for me now.

Socialism is not a science, a sociology in miniature: it is a cry of pain.