“We’re just some birds in this fucked up nest of a world.”

The girl with the heart of gold, bled for you in ink.

She’s not your unicorn. She’s her own mother fucking dragon.

We are no different – we go back to anyone just to have something to do.

I heard you went to outer space, and while you dreamt – the planets and galaxies whispered my name.

She’s not your unicorn. She’s her own mother fucking dragon.

You and I flirt in ways they don’t know exist.

You look at me like supper, and I just want to be your last one this time.

You’re living the skyscraper life up high just so your ego can soar high.

You come back to ask me if I’m happy, and it shows me its you who isn’t.

We don’t belong to anyone. Half the time we don’t even belong to ourselves.

He says he wants to take me to Paris – but I see Amsterdam in his eyes.

Boys with skeletons in their closets – they make skeletons out of girls.

Lets admit it: we all play the game of hide and seek fairly well.

Please – stop living in boxes where you can’t breathe.

I want your madness, only if you promise to be mad about me.

I love things that smell like fire and taste like fumes: you.

It was terribly beautiful to Tess today, for since her eyes last fell upon it she had learnt that the serpent hisses where the sweet birds sing.

You can cage the songbird, but you can’t make her sing. And you can trap the free bird, but you’ll have to clip her wings.

Blessed be the Lord for the beauty of summer and spring, for the air, the water, the verdure, and the song of birds.

Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.

The worthiest people are the most injured by slander, as is the best fruit which the birds have been pecking at.

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.

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.

History repeats itself, but the special call of an art which has passed away is never reproduced. It is as utterly gone out of the world as the song of a destroyed wild bird.