“I could lose myself in you or die blissfully, trying.”

You load your words as I bare my chest, and this will be the most beautiful death.

Poetry is the loveliest art. It has a wretched way of revealing our own character when we think we are judging the poets.

I have known love and I have known loss, but in the end, they both looked a lot like you.

I write because suicide is no longer an option.

Too many times I have given this heart away, I am afraid it is no longer mine.

I think I saw you again in the moonlight tonight, and I swear I could taste the hints of it alll.

On paper I have killed you a thousand times but my heart disregards clever words.

He left love letters at my door, and a chalk outline on the highway.

How recklessly we turn from strangers and blindly back to lovers, to nothing.

He was all dangerous eyes and beautiful lies, but I ached. for him to lie to me some more.

Some souls were never meant to be content.

I like you here, between commas, where the only thing you can break now, is my lines.

He was everything I never could, but always wanted to love.

You love so perfectly, as if you have never been told a heart can be broken.

I still pick at these memories of you; I pick them until they bleed.

The deepest pain I ever felt was denying my own feelings to make everyone else comfortable.

Of course, in a novel, people’s hearts break, and they die and that is the end of it; and in a story this is very convenient. But in real life we do not die when all that makes life bright dies to us.

Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.

And it was strange, I thought, that sorrow lasts and can make a man look forward to death, but the mood of victory fills a moment and then is over.

When I die I have visions of fags singing ‘Over the Rainbow’ and the flag at Fire Island being flown at half mast.

Truth never triumphs-its opponents just die out.

We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon.

I hear they burn for murder. Well, they say it just takes a second to die.

Death can happen anywhere, but kids in Chicago, like 4 years old, can get shot. You don’t really hear that in too many places.