“Your smile is watching a flower bloom in love. Shy at first, then your brightness unfolds and you magically decorate the world with your flashy hues.”

If a home is where the heart is, I guess my home left with you. Please remember to water the flowers.

Go ahead break my heart. Although I love your darkness, the sun will eventually dry my tears and paint rainbows in my sky. I will transform this pain into poetry and these wings will carry me away.

I hope you rise like the sun, bright and cheerful. Fresh and free from yesterdays storms and ready to shine your light on the world.

You thought you could take advantage of my heart. But I’ve mastered revenge and made it an art.

Storms in his eyes, Fire in his heart, Lust in his touch, Tearing me apart.

Sometimes the angry sky rages before the bellowing tears spill.

I want to be his peace and his raging fire. His muse and every desire.

Have the courage to be afraid, because fear is a sign that you care deeply. If you care deeply enough, you will be brave enough.

Love is magic and magic is everywhere. You just need to open your heart to see it.

On my knees, lips slightly parted thirsty, ready for a strong stiff one. Make it neat I love the burn.

I’m suffocating on empty promises and twisted truths. I’m drowning in a bottomless pool of illusion.

I’m the fire that dances in the rain, I’m the love that lives in my heart. I’m the broken heart that crashes, I’m the phoenix rising from the ashes. I’m healing and scars, I’m the sun and all the stars.

Your smile keeps me longing for the taste of your lips pressed against my soul.

Insomnia. Restless soul. Long dark nights. Haunted heavy heart feels. Foggy.

Although you stood before me in all your tangible glory, your love evaporated like an illusion melting in my hands.

I’m the queen of broken hearts with a reign that’s sure to last.

A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!

Before the seed there comes the thought of bloom.

Let a hundred flowers bloom.

Let a hundred flowers bloom, let a hundred schools of thought contend.

The birth of a baby and the blooming of a flower are natural events, but the laboratory methods forever fail to give us the key to the secret of either.

Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.

FORTRAN is not a flower but a weed – it is hardy, occasionally blooms, and grows in every computer.

Someone once said that under the bell jar of compliance, the only thing that blooms is rage.