“She wanted romance. I just wanted to fuck the stars out of her eyes.”

Break me. Until there’s nothing left and I’ll be free.

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.

Her eyes, which refused to meet mine, had the defensive coldness of those who are determined to lose hope.

I’ve fallen for your eyes, but they don’t know me yet.

Beauty is simply reality seen with the eyes of love.

The temptation is powerful to close our eyes and wait for the worst to pass, but history tells us that for freedom to survive, it must be defended and that if lies are to stop, they must be exposed.

I read my eyes out and can’t read half enough neither. The more one reads the more one sees we have to read.

Blessed are the people whose leaders can look destiny in the eye without flinching but also without attempting to play God

In the blink of an eye, everything can change! Why waste time?

Every closed eye is not sleeping, and every open eye is not seeing.