my dear,we are all made of water. it's okay to rage. sometimes it's okay to rest. to recede.

there is some achingthat will only heal...in the mosque of sleep.

we are all like poems. some of us rhyme. some don’t. some are Pulitzer prizessome are just scribblesand yet, we all possessa special kind of beautythat can either heal or cut to the boneone that can never quitebe fathomed, nor forgotten.

The most beautiful, amazing and inevitable fact about life- Everything has a natural healing process.

A single poemis worth a hundredcozy winter nightskind wordsand healed wounds.

I was coming together...limb by limb, after being brokenfor an infinity.