“She was a broken sky, where stars never shine and butterflies die.”

I’m wrong but I’m real.

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.

Sometimes, the people we invest the most time in disappoint us the most.

If it ain’t broke, you can probably still fix it.

It is hard when a dream comes true but doesn’t last.

I’ve never had a good line. Well, maybe ‘I must break you’.

What breaks my heart is suffering of any kind. Too often, our world is divisive and cruel where it needs to be uniting and loving.

I still love her. But she’s retarded, too.

You shouldn’t throw stones if you live in a glass house and if you got a glass jaw, you should watch yo mouth: cause I’ll break yo face.

You are everything to me, that includes every broken piece of you.