“I’m holding happiness as though it never left it was always below my skin. Waiting to be seen waiting for the opportunity to breathe again.”

Morning mist like a blanket to dawn, obscures the hope of a new day. Yet the sunrises high, and the blanket falls and hope returns to the stage.

Take me from this wasteland, for I have longed for an escape like a bird that craves the wilderness, from every corner of his cage.

Sometimes it is not about the touch at all it is about the hands they belong too.

Bitter sweet rose her thorns pierce every bone, but her lustful petals fall like bandaids for bleeding sores.

A flower grows where it is planted but love grows everywhere.

Mountains speak in peaks and troughs. Just like life. And just like love.

I will always have a little bit of the wild in me. Always remembering what a good heart tastes like. Like love, that never ends. Like you.

Some days I wonder how I can become more then I think of you and I grow with love.

We choose our gardens based on what will bloom, and we wait out the seasons, until they do. And sometimes, love needs patience too.

Catch my fall as my wings ignite with love and the sky and I unite.

I’ve been that children, learning to walk. Somedays I’ve fallen, and some days I’ve crawled. But the steps, they grew. And so did my strength. And then I let go of your hand.

You are the book I keep closed, for some stories are not easy to read. But flowers bloom in between like the story is still alive.

The more I branch out, the less lonely I feel. I often wonder if trees are like that, too.

She teaches me I am boundless and free. She teaches me my past does not define me.

Love me later when the sun fades into the horizon and the distance between you and I melts away.

Maybe all these tears are leading me somewhere. Because when the sun meets rain, something beautiful emerges. And perhaps I am a rainbow in the making.

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

Credit is like a looking-glass, which when once sullied by a breath, may be wiped clear again; but if once cracked can never be repaired.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science.

The clever cat eats cheese and breathes down rat holes with baited breath.

What one does in one’s art, that is the breath of one’s being. What one does in one’s life, that is a bagatelle for the outsiders to fuss about.

I never go to funerals. To me a person is dead when he breathes for the last time. After that, your memories should be personal.

Success is my breathing space. I brought it on myself. I will price it, I will cash it, I can take it or leave it. Loneliness is my hiding place, breastfeeding myself. What more can I say? I have swallowed the bitter pill, I can taste it. Life is real.

Do friends really long to breathe the air of the other?