The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from falling hands we throw.

Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street

In Flanders' fields the poppies blow Between the crosses row on row That mark our place and in the sky The larks still bravely singing fly Scarce heard among the guns below.

We had everything: love, attention, the best money could buy, but we were taught that we had to first give to then receive.

The light can only shine in the darkness.

And our dreams are who we are.

One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is "Whatever you do, don't be boring."

If someone is talking to you and tells you that you ought to do something, and you can tell they mean it, those are the scary people. Those are the people you want to watch out for.

You can't connect with something you're not passionate about.

I believe that reality TV should be called 'not reality' TV; it's fiction.

Auditioning is always so different for different things.

We have made it impossible for children to fall very far—and in so doing, we have robbed them of the joys of climbing high.

I think there is another choice for women; it involves challenging Guyland and supporting each other.