“I messed up a lot of things. I called it poetry.”

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.

Women are beautiful. But some are made of hell.

You feel messy and flawed yet I believe you’re beautiful as you are.

Healing is a messy process. But it always has a beautiful ending.

Please remember, sometimes its okay to not be perfect.

Never mess with a poets heart for they know how to turn broken pieces in a written masterpiece of art.

Everybody’s intentions don’t be pure that’s why I don’t mess with people.

Why not accept your beautiful mess? and care a little less?

Is less really more or more is actually less? Will you leave me depressed or will I make you obsessed? Oh, What a mess! What a mess!

We made a mess of this love, you and I. Forever the most beautiful disaster.