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

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.

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.

If you wish to know yourself observe how others act. If you wish to understand others look into your own heart.

I follow my heart, for I can trust it.

The quiet hearts speaks the loudest prayer, hoping someone would hear.

The game of life looks cheerful when one carries a treasure safe in his heart.

Many a smiling face hides a mourning heart; but grief alone teaches us what we are.

There’s a bottomless heart hooked into all of you and it’s wondering how much you care.

We spent a life time loving, to write an ode to heartbreak in the end.

You are a nameless prayer, my heart begs to be brought again to existence.