“Poems are a nice way of saying fuck you.”

Her memory still lingers, like a cockroach in my heart.

True love is letting her know that her ass really does look fat in those jeans.

If there’s never been a restraining order, it ain’t love.

It wasn’t forever. But I loved her until I hated her.

She was only a collection of flaws and she was beautiful.

There’s a strange beauty in her. She shines like hell.

He opened her cages, and freed the things inside.

I’m wrong but I’m real.

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.

Always falling but not for anything.

We search for meaning. And destroy it.

A poet is the most beautiful poem, never read out loud by anyone.

Sometimes I write quickly, sometimes I spend several weeks on a single poem. I would really love for readers not to be able to guess which of the poems took so much work!

You deserve the love that stays with you like the childhood poem you still remember by heart.

Poem is a phoenix, whose wings are painted in the colors of nostalgia.

I want to write happy poems on new years. But grief doesn’t have timelines, and it refuses to let go of me.

I still write poems about you, when I know you never write about me.

I wrote many poems about her and held her so close to my heart that she did not even knew a place there.

If this was my last poem I’d dedicate it to myself.