People aren´t born sad.We make them that way.

We have calcium in our bones, iron in our veins, carbon in our souls, and nitrogen in our brains. 93 percent stardust, with souls made of flames, we are all just stars that have people names.

Some girls are full of heartache and poetry and those are the kind of girls who try to save wolves instead of running away from them.

You fell in love with a storm. Did you really think you would get out unscathed?

You must understand: they fear you. There is nothing scarier in their minds than a girl who knows the power of her flames.

You are damaged and broken and unhinged. But so are shooting stars and comets.

The monsters were neverunder my bed.Because the monsterswere inside my head.I fear no monsters, for no monsters I see.Because all this timethe monster has been me.

People aren't born sad.We make them that way.

Fall in love with someonewho tastes like adventurebut looks likethe calm, beautiful morningafter a terrible storm

I hope you find someone who knows how to love you when you are sad.

Some days I am more wolf than woman, and I am still learning how to stop apologizing for my wild.

Asking is the first level of prayer.

Watching everyone root through their psyche, it just delights me. Especially R. Crumb's stuff.

If you ask me, when something extraordinary shows up in your life in the middle of the night, you give it a name and make it the best home you can.

The dark night was the first book of poetry and the constellations were the poems.

I still relate to my father very much. I mean, I talk to him in a certain way, as we do talk to the dead.

My own heart let me more have pity on; let Me live to my sad self hereafter kind, Charitable; not live this tormented mind With this tormented mind tormenting yet.

Unfair in practice is not the same thing as wrong in principle, but sometimes it has to do.

Literature is the one place in any society where, within the secrecy of our own heads, we can hear voices talking about everything in every possible way.

Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.