❝ A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

❝ I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can.

❝ Some fall in love.
I shatter.

❝

They could tell you what a miracle this is. They could tell you how rare this is. They could tell you how rare friendship always is. The chances are slim. The cards are always stacked against you. The odds are always low.

But I have seen the best of you and the worst of you, and I choose both. I want to share every single one of your sunshines and save some for later. I will tuck them into my pockets so I can give them back to you when the rains fall hard. Friend, I want to be the mirror that reminds you to love yourself. I want to be the air in your lungs that reminds you to breathe easy. When the walls come down, when the thunder rumbles, when nobody else is home, hold my hand and I promise I won’t let go.

❝ Being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand.

❝ Nothing else ever in your life will affect you like music did in your early teens, and it puts you on a certain course. It’s like a love affair. It widens your taste and it broadens your view on everything. It saves you.

❝ We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.