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She’s like a jar of butterflies, waiting to be opened.

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Butterfly Herself Open Wait

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Her memory still lingers, like a cockroach in my heart.
TONY COBLE

Heart Herself Memories
I gave her address to my soul. Ans she fucked the mailman.
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We search for meaning. And destroy it.
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She’s like turning on the radio and hearing a brand new song.
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With her, the world becomes art.
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Always falling but not for anything.
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I’m just a daydream. I don’t even know what I really am.
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I never drink in the morning. Mornings are for drugs.
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Drink Drugs Morning Myself
She was a broken sky, where stars never shine and butterflies die.
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Break Butterfly Death Shine Sky
It’s funny how love fades, and they become more than a poem about yesterday.
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Fade Love Past Poem
Sometimes I wonder if these rain soaked shoes will get me home.
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Home Myself Rain Shoes Time Wonder
He opened her cages, and freed the things inside.
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Cage Freedom Myself Open
Failures often become art. And art can never fail.
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Art Failure Myself Wisdom
She was an artist on top of me, and soaked my sheets with poetry.
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Artist Myself Poetry Sex
She could be anything. But she’s just a girl with a broken heart.
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Broken Heart Herself
Poems are a nice way of saying fuck you.
TONY COBLE

Poem Talk Voice Yourself

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