“A rose with her thorns is still a rose.”

Let it be known that I was born to be free.

Love doesn’t hurt us people do.

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.

Honey, you are a rose.

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.

The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o’ the morn.

So passeth, in the passing of a day, Of mortal life the leaf, the bud, the flower.

The curious crime, the fine Felicity and flower of wickedness.

I often think flowers are the angels’ alphabet whereby they write on hills and fields mysterious and beautiful lessons for us to feel and learn.

The lonely willow slowly withering away, until you walked into its unfortunate meadow flowers miraculously emerge heavenly features surge.

My mother, was perfectly horrified when I began shooting and tried to keep me in school, but I would run away and go quail shooting in the woods or trim my dresses with wreaths of wildflowers.

Cities and Thrones and Powers Stand in Time’s eye, Almost as long as flowers, Which daily die.

In April the sweet showers fall And pierce the drought of March to the root, and all The veins are bathed in liquor of such power As brings about the engendering of the flower.