“Love lives. and dies. as fast as butterflies.”

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.

Late nights. Poetry. Cigarettes. and a wounded heart, trying to forget you.

Making itself intelligible is suicide for philosophy.

As soon as we are born, we are old enough to die.

I am hopelessly a lover and a dreamer and that will be the death of me.

You should not overlook the guidelines of your culture. Life is short, and you don’t have time to figure everything out on your own. The wisdom of the past was hard-earned, and your dead ancestors may have something useful to tell you.

Whether you think of it as heavenly or as earthly, if you love life immortality is no consultation for death.

Man dies constantly until the moment of his demise.

Despite all expectations, the time of my last campaign and of my passing is near. I wish to die at home. Let not my end disarm you, and on no account weep for me, lest the enemy be warned of my death.

With Heaven’s aid I have conquered for you a huge empire. But my life was too short to achieve the conquest of the world. That task is left for you.