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

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.

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.

The religious persecution of the ages has been done under what was claimed to be the command of God.

Respect commands itself and it can neither be given nor withheld when it is due.

Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum.

I speak and speak but the listener retains only the words he is expecting. It is not the voice that commands the story: it is the ear.

Never pretend to a love which you do not actually feel, for love is not ours to command.

None of us will ever accomplish anything excellent or commanding except when he listens to this whisper which is heard by him alone.

We can’t command our love, but we can our actions.

Beware of despairing about yourself: you are commanded to put your trust in God, and not in yourself.