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

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.

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.

A noble soul spreads even over a face in which the architectonic beauty is wanting an irresistible grace, and a often even triumphs over the natural disfavor.

The beautiful thing about learning is nobody can take it away from you.

I wish I could write a beautiful book to break those hearts that are soon to cease to exist: a book of faith and small neat worlds and of people who live by the philosophies of popular songs.

The Most beautiful human deed, is to be useful to others.

Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still.

There’s never one sunrise the same or one sunset the same.

A beautiful soul has no other merit than its own existence.

It is only through the morning gate of the beautiful that you can penetrate into the realm of knowledge. That which we feel here as beauty we shall one day know as truth.