Don't expect to make a difference unless you speak up for yourself.
I am beginning to measure myself in strength, not pounds. Sometimes in smiles.
You have to know what you stand for, not just what you stand against.
Write about the emotions you fear the most.
Censorship is the child of fear and the father of ignorance.
A scar is a sign of strength. . .the sign of a survivor.
When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time.
You can tell a book is real when your heart beats faster. Real books make you sweat. Cry, if no one is looking. Real books help you make sense of your crazy life. Real books tell it true, don't hold back and make you stronger. But most of all, real books give you hope. Because it's not always going to be like this and books-the good ones, the ones-show you how to make it better. Now.
Everybody told me to be a man. Nobody told me how.
Who cares what the color means? How do you know what he meant to say? I mean, did he leave another book called "Symbolism in My Books?" If he didn't, then you could just be making all of this up. Does anyone really think this guy sat down and stuck all kinds of hidden meanings into his story? It's just a story.... But I think you are making all of this symbolism stuff up. I don't believe any of it.
Can the plural possessive express the feelings in your heart? If you don't learn art now, you will never learn to breathe!
I wonder how long it would take for anyone to notice if I just stopped talking.
I don't say anything and I feel awful. I tell somebody and I feel worse. I'm having trouble finding a middle ground.
You were born with the seeds of your talent, the ability to observe the world around you and weave piece of it into a story. I believe that most -- if not all -- people are born with these seeds. What separates the writers from the non-writers is that the writers actually sit down and, you know... write.
There is something about Christmas that requires a rug rat. Little kids make Christmas fun. I wonder if could rent one for the holidays.
There is no magic cure, no making it all go away forever. There are only small steps upward; an easier day, an unexpected laugh, a mirror that doesn't matter anymore.
I nod like I’m listening,like we’re communicating, and she never knows the difference.
I have survived. I am here. Confused, screwed up, but here. So, how can I find my way? Is there a chain saw of the soul, an ax I can take to my memories or fears?
Can't escape pain, kiddo. Battle through it and you get stronger.
I need a new friend. I need a friend, period. Not a true friend, nothing close or share clothes or sleepover giggle giggle yak yak. Just a pseudo-friend, disposable friend. Friend as accessory. Just so I don't feel or look so stupid.
It doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts except the small smiles and blushes that flash across the room like tiny sparrows.
I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia. Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind. Did he rape my head, too?
IT happened. There is no avoiding it, no forgetting. No running away, or flying, or burying, or hiding.
Art without emotion its like chocolate cake without sugar. It makes you gag.
I failed eating, failed drinking, failed not cutting myself into shreds. Failed friendship. Failed sisterhood and daughterhood. Failed mirrors and scales and phone calls. Good thing I'm stable.
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