I’ll keep searching for the meaning of life and I hope I find it as crumpled paper nearish a trash can

I wish you had told me that on the good days kissing you would make me think that I knew what happiness was and on the bad days

So much time passes without feeling a single thing that I think I would give anything

The pen must be
 mightier than the sword
 For there is nothing that
 will spill your guts faster
 than a bit of ink that says


There seems to be a drought in my… but who knows if it is the cause or the result of the war raging within me

I’ve kept my eyes closed most of these past eighteen years because I find it just as dark

If nature were so flattered by poems written with itself in mind as people are we would be moving mountains