“From the ashes I rise, I am blooming into something radiant.”

I know a beautiful soul when I feel one. The empath in me honors the authentic in you.

Once our souls collided and caught fire, there was no turning back.

She was the night, in love with the stars, always chasing the moon.

Words alone mean little. Show me your eyes; that’s where I’ll decipher your truth from your lies.

Undress my soul one petal at a time.

She can be dainty and still have claws. She can be sweet and still make fire. That’s her magic.

I think my soul was born with wings; it’s always restless, it won’t sit still.

When I told you to ruin me I wasn’t referring to my heart.

My soul is wild but my heart is loyal and true.

Some people help you see the world differently, those are my kind of people.

I have no room for monsters and cowards claiming to be something they’re not, who lie to get what they want.

Don’t want a complicated love. Just want you to grab my demons, kiss my madness and run away with me.

She’s a galaxy of dazzling hues and her heart contains a universe of love. She is starlight.

Genuine soul connections are the real aphrodisiacs.

She was a restless soul, born with black wings and gypsy heart.

Oh come all ve misfits, you belong in my fun freak world.

I was taking a part of the South to transplant in alien soil, to see if it could grow differently, if it could drink of new and cool rains, bend in strange winds, respond to the warmth of other suns and, perhaps, to bloom

There are thorns everywhere, but along the path of vice, roses bloom above them.

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.