She was the black rose. She was the lightning storm. She was one who couldn't grow. She was the one with thorns.… — Needa Muy Flowers Copy Share Image
Getting kissed by a needle and bleeding every time. The art of writing. — Needa Muy Art Copy Share Image
The world goes to sleep when it's a cold winter. All except those writers in which it naturally rains inside of them… — Needa Muy Awkward Copy Share Image
My lack of interest with human beings shouldn't be considered a sign of weakness or disability for them to assume that I… — Needa Muy Madness Copy Share Image
That is the saddest thing about being a writer. We die in ways you cannot fathom just to keep someone alive in… — Needa Muy Hate Copy Share Image
I am at the point of my life where I am realizing that I cannot write about the same shit forever. I… — Needa Muy Empty Copy Share Image
I will be moving to London to reinvent my whole identity the way Alice (Jane Jones) did in the movie, Closer. — Needa Muy Alice Copy Share Image
I started hating you for everything that made me love you. I hated how lowkey, hollow, and discreet you were. I hated… — Needa Muy Dancing with the devil Copy Share Image
I'm okay with being alone in crowded places. People just feel more awkward about me more than I feel about myself. I… — Needa Muy Awkward Copy Share Image
An infected writer. Sick of the poetry poison injected inside of her. — Needa Muy Awkward Copy Share Image
Realistic writing kept me stable. It kept my mind less clustered by resting my soul; pouring it onto a blank canvas. I… — Needa Muy Blank canvas Copy Share Image
Back pushed against the wall. Hearts shattered like broken glass. The rain's dropping harder than ever like the mood(s) of Sylvia Plath. — Needa Muy Bleed Copy Share Image
Very often I'm told that my heart's cold. That I'm the type to let my eyes speak what my mouth won't. That… — Needa Muy Empty Copy Share Image
I met him. Him; him who in the midst of my terrible sorrow, fell in love with my madness. Him who was… — Needa Muy Him Copy Share Image
I saw the poet in you when it was obvious that your type of women were all broken and were those who… — Needa Muy Madness Copy Share Image
I spent years of being a ghost / Unsure of where home is anymore / I tell them I feel nothing /… — Needa Muy Awkward Copy Share Image
The night echoes into my hollow lungs in a way that the morning and afternoon sun would never understand or be able… — Needa Muy Afternoon sun Copy Share Image
When writing, we can be one step away from recovering as well as being one step away from relapsing. That's the most… — Needa Muy Writing Copy Share Image
He traded in what he thought he had no control over for someone who he knew how to manipulate. — Needa Muy Breakup Copy Share Image
