“Love lives. and dies. as fast as butterflies.”

She’s no rose. But in her I see the beauty of thorns.

There’s this thing that hurts inside me all the time. Because I know what’s coming.

Lets die. Alone. Like we always do.

Failures often become art. And art can never fail.

Summer looks the same. But last summer she loved me.

Poems are a nice way of saying fuck you.

Always falling but not for anything.

We search for meaning. And destroy it.

She was simple. Like a poem, and always dressed in sunshine.

She was an artist on top of me, and soaked my sheets with poetry.

A lot of ugly people hide behind beautiful eyes. A lot of things are only lies.

I never drink in the morning. Mornings are for drugs.

She could be anything. But she’s just a girl with a broken heart.

It’s funny how love fades, and they become more than a poem about yesterday.

Late nights. Poetry. Cigarettes. and a wounded heart, trying to forget you.

She’s like a jar of butterflies, waiting to be opened.

If i could be assured of your destruction, i would in the interest of the public, cheerfully accept my death.

What a simple thing death is, just as simple as the falling of an autumn leaf.

What a simple thing death is, just as simple as the falling of an autumn leaf.

I started with this idea in my head, “There’s two things I’ve got a right to, death or liberty.

I started with this idea in my head, “There’s two things I’ve got a right to, death or liberty.

The desire to survive and the fear of death are artistic sentiments

For me, love must be ugly, looks must be divine, and death must be beautiful.

When you lose a person you love so much, surviving the loss is difficult.