If you could be anyone,
Would you chose to be *yourself?

I like you.
Your eyes are full of language.

Isn't it weird that in 20 years some of us could be married, some of us could be famous and some of us could be *dead.

She pretends she like doesn't miss you,
You're acting like you don't give a ****.
Ego is a hell of a drug.

Black is not sad.
Bright colours are what depress me.
They're so.. Empty.
Black is poetic.
How do you imagine a poem?
In a bright yellow jacket?
Probably not.

She is made up of words that not anyone can understand;
Her mind is a dictionary of sadness and heartache,
And her heart is a poetry book for the hopeless.
She is the prettiest song,
The perfect sonnet,
The most meaningful haiku,
And the longest novel.
It takes a while to read her,
Seconds to love her,
And a lifetime to forger her.

Heaven exists.  
It's 7pm with your lips pressed against mine.
He'll exists.
It's 3am with you on my mind and not in my bed.