Through your eyesI am learningto see myself.Through your heartI am learningto love myself.In the chrysalisof your acceptanceI can feel myselfbecoming.

Your transformation will begin the moment you stop worrying for someone rise to rescue you.

We're all in the human race. The question is, are you running toward your dreams or just away from your fears?

She was a tragic beauty. Sadness had left its fingerprints all over her face.

Birthing is never easy or without pain, be it a universe, a child, or a fresh start in life. Contraction precedes expansion. Darkness comes before dawn. Joy follows pain. This is the way of things.

Opening to love will always involve risk, but a heart safe from pain is one also locked to joy.

Sadness is a bruise on the skin of memory.

When sorrow's cup is filled up to the brim, the slightest touch of memory can cause tears to spill again.

Strangely incurious, her lovers from before. She has worlds within I'm longing to explore.

She had a very inconvenient heart. It always insisted on feeling things ever so deeply.

She thirsted for love, but found only a mirage. Some hearts are a desert you can die wandering in.

Happily ever after?" "If justice doesn't triumph and love doesn't make the circle in entertainment fiction, what's the point? Real life sucks too often.

Don't ever let anyone tell you that things can't be changed, that things can't be done. The can and they will, if we are united in what we believe.

You've got to be success minded. You've got to feel that things are coming your way when you're out selling; otherwise, you won't be able to sell anything.

The propitious smiles of Heaven, can never be expected on a nation that disregards the eternal rules of order and right, which Heaven itself has ordained...

Keep striving for your goals, and remember that it's good to be ambitious.

Our political institutions work remarkably well. They are designed to clang against each other. The noise is democracy at work.

Ultimately, it's an illusion that you can understand yourself.

The usual bad poem in somebody's Collected Works is a learned, mannered, valued habit, a habit a little more careful than, and little emptier than, brushing one's teeth.

We could ask artists from abroad to come in too, so that there could be a mixing and matching of skills from Europe, America and here which would widen our world.

Nothing you can't spell will ever work.