“I want your madness, only if you promise to be mad about me.”

She’s not your unicorn. She’s her own mother fucking dragon.

You and I flirt in ways they don’t know exist.

You look at me like supper, and I just want to be your last one this time.

You’re living the skyscraper life up high just so your ego can soar high.

You come back to ask me if I’m happy, and it shows me its you who isn’t.

We don’t belong to anyone. Half the time we don’t even belong to ourselves.

He says he wants to take me to Paris – but I see Amsterdam in his eyes.

Boys with skeletons in their closets – they make skeletons out of girls.

Lets admit it: we all play the game of hide and seek fairly well.

Please – stop living in boxes where you can’t breathe.

I love things that smell like fire and taste like fumes: you.

We both chased our dreams and our dreams chased us. Yet we forgot to chase each other.

He wears a smile as bright as the heaven he fell from.

He’s my red adrenaline sky, but I just prayer he never paints me blue.

Its always the quiet ones who love the loudest.

I turned us into poetry because this is how we remain.

Madness, in a higher sense, is the beginning of all wisdom.

The Son of God died; it is by all means to be believed because it is absurd. And he was buried and rose again; the fact is certain, because it is impossible.

The fixity of a habit is generally in direct proportion to its absurdity.

Most people in this society who aren’t actively mad are, at best, reformed or potential lunatics.

I don’t have a girlfriend. I just know a girl who would get really mad if she heard me say that.

Excuse my enthusiasm or rather madness, for I am really drunk with intellectual vision whenever I take a pencil or graver into my hand.

Mothers are all slightly insane.

Does it seem that everything is extravagance in the world, or rather madness, when you watch the way things go? A crowd of rogues enjoy blessings they have won by sheer injustice, while more honest folks are miserable and die of hunger.