I think I'm surviving
In all the wrong ways.

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.

Oh please don't cry, you *liar.

It still hurts at 3 a.m.

You shouldn't point out things about people's appearance if they can't fix it in ten seconds.

I like you.
Your eyes are full of language.

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.

You're addicted to these Cliché quotes that say all the things your thinking.

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

Maybe we feel empty because we leave pieces of oursf in everything we used to love.

I talk less because silence hides flaws.

I'm writing only for you,
But you'll never see it.

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.

There are poems
inside of you
That paper can not handle.

And finally you realized.. You can't force "it" to be something. You can't force consistency, loyalty, or even honesty. You can't force them to keep their world, or to communicate, or to realize something special is in front of them.

You said I was your dream girl, but I guess you decided to wake up.

I'm a mess of unfinished thoughts.

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.

Someday you will look back and know exactly why it happened.

Frame every so-called disaster with these words, "in five years will it matter?"

We're all trying to forget *someone.

The higher you fly,
The harder you fall.

And the sad thing is, we hate who we are but we also hate who we aren't.

Beautiful Scars on critical veins.

The answers that you dig for are not inside your *wrist.

And finally you realized.. You can't force "It" to be something. You can't force cons

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