Am I sorry?
I'm a sorry son of a bitch.
Sometimes I just don't come around because I feel like I could probably overstep my bounds by breathing.
You're fucking beautiful
I say "fucking beautiful" that way
because when I make myself feel vulnerable I have to disqualify my sentiments with meaningless verbal scars.
I always catch the stars with my bare hands
like I have a habit of leaning on frying pans.
I'd love to spend some time in your space but you don't dig black holes.
Not to mention that there would be so much air about it.
The compression sickness could really be a bitch.
Sometimes I fall asleep and just never come down.
Sometimes I wake up and break down.
I would just pack up and move to my dreams but the real estate is a nightmare.
I think all along my biggest problem has been that I listen to too many love songs.
Dead man walking on the green mile had a dream last night he was an egg. He was about to get Freud.
I don't think my hair will ever fall out but I have a terrible feeling one day I might trip and fall right out of my hair.
I lost a thought so I poured out my soul and let it hit the ground saying, "This is for all the forgotten verses."
I won't truly know what it's like to feel young until I'm a geezer and that might be a little too late.
Dreary songs on a rainy day, that's my cup of tea.
“I wanted to be with the most beautiful girl in my eyes but she's taken by the prettiest shithead in the room.”
“Yeah, she always is.”
Reality is the harshest burden to bear for a man with a vivid imagination.
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