“Kiss his wounds and tell him its okay to cry, humans have emotions and they bleed sometimes.”

Everyday is a discovery of the person I am becoming, or I always was, but only now realizing.

You are a miracle. Every essence of you is magic. On days you doubt yourself, I hope you know, the universe resides in you.

I keep you in my heart, like a dream unfulfilled. Like an incomplete wish. Like something I can crave but never have. Ever since the beginning of time, what has love been anyway? if not longing or heartbreak?

Aren’t all poets born from tragedy?

You are a nameless prayer, my heart begs to be brought again to existence.

I have inherited my fathers rage and my mothers silence. Everyday is a survival. I am a fire burning, just invisible.

Brown daughters are just fragile glass houses always on the verge of shattering.

I believe we all deserve good endings. We were kind people before this world turned us cruel.

They said everything I lost will come back to me. I said -everything I’ve lost is too lost to ever come back to Me.

My love isn’t love. It is devotion. I don’t fall in love, I shatter. I don’t love, I worship.

I’ve been so hurt. Just love me enough that my heart heals and all my scars worship your name.

Even when the blood in my veins is the same as them, every cell in my body is against becoming like them. What a curse it is to hate the very thing that birth you.

I want to write happy poems on new years. But grief doesn’t have timelines, and it refuses to let go of me.

Without this sadness I wouldn’t even know who I am.

You seem like such a long ago; but you were supposed to be my forever?

I don’t say I know what love is. But whatever it is, you are its every shade.

Your words may dim her light and make her cry, but you can never douse her flames how much ever you try.

I cry because I don’t know how to help you, but I can’t even help myself.

Listen to the cry of a woman in labor at the hour of giving birth — look at the dying man’s struggle at his last extremity, and then tell me whether something that begins and ends thus could be intended for enjoyment.

What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music.

And all the stars in the deep blue sky are the tears of the moon; the ones he cried while dreaming about the sun

It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone, it’s not unusual to have fun with anyone. But when I see you hanging about with anyone, it’s not unusual to see me cry. I wanna’ die.

He always preferred the way my eyes looked after they had cried. I wish he knew how fine they looked once he had said goodbye.

Have the courage to laugh in the places you have cried.