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

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.

Sometimes I wonder if these rain soaked shoes will get me home.

She wanted romance. I just wanted to fuck the stars out of her eyes.

I thought butterflies are frail until they began to flit in my stomach.

God changes caterpillars into butterflies, sand into pearls and coal into diamonds using time and pressure. He’s working on you, too.

He dirtied my name with his dark and muddy lies. The earth he left grew flowers for the butterflies & now I thrive.

Come, butterfly It’s late- We’ve miles to go together.

April’s air stirs in Willow-leaves, a butterfly Floats and balances.

With every gust of wind, the butterfly changes its place on the willow.

She’s beautiful chaos and wild butterflies.

Sweet freedom whispered in my ear, you’re a butterfly, and butterflies are free to fly, fly away, high-away, bye-bye.