“There’s a strange beauty in her. She shines like hell.”

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.

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

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 was in disbelief that I’d just explained my dreary life to this bizarre, beautiful boy who may or may not despise me.

I don’t want to show my body to the ones, who often close their eyes, when it’s time to praise the beauty of my mind and soul.

I feel fine and comfortable with myself, but not because I’m beautiful.

There are as many styles of beauty as there are visions of happiness.

She has the scent of cinnamon summer that the roots of winter absorb.

What is really beautiful must always be true.

I know many beautiful people and their lives are just so terrible. They feel so uncomfortable with themselves. Being comfortable is not about what you look like, but how you feel.

Beauty is nothing other than the promise of happiness.