“Always falling but not for anything.”

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

Poems are a nice way of saying fuck you.

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.

Sometimes I wonder if these rain soaked shoes will get me home.

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

Women are beautiful. But some are made of hell.

This heart. It’s broke. I don’t want it anymore.

Romance is a dream. I can get better shit at the liquor store.

Your boundaries scare some people away. It’s okay. Let them go.

If your dreams demand you to walk through hell, walk-in as you are the owner of the place.

My only fault is that I don’t realize how great I really am.

Never let anyone talk you out of a gut feeling.

Can you seek your own approval instead of theirs?

I’m forever poppin shit pulling up and dropping shit.

I don’t mind being called a weirdo.

Never needed acceptance from all you outsiders.