“Why bloom in hell when you are not a flower conceived in there.”

And then when you are ready, take off your armor and show me your scars.

I am sorry for wounding you with my sharp edges before taking pain to refine and mend yourself.

Thank you for still being there for yourself. For being strong. For being resilient. Keep going.

When the dust has settled, turn off the revving, restless engine inside you.

How would I know if he’s going to be a good husband or not? Watch closely how he treats his mother.

I am powerless in silencing the deafening thunder in my heart.

Someone once told me, wherever you are, whatever you do, always keep on upgrading yourself.

Your faults are your wounds. And I don’t feel any anger at all. What I feel, is compassion.

Go where you are celebrated, somewhere where the sun you carry in you will be seen and fully embraced by those who recognize it.

I will not allow myself to lose the child in me.

What a sight of storm you are as a lie beside me in your deep, peaceful slumber.

Love, grief, and the complexity of being human are the driving forces for every artistic revolution.

Its neither politics or religion. Music is the universal love language.

May I stay soft and delicate in this world meant to draw out the brute in me.

We forget that our parents were children, too. Let’s get to know them as little ones. Perhaps we’ll find the answer why they behave now the way they do.

I am a moth madly captivated by the fire in you.