Poezję pisze się łzami, powieść krwią, a historię rozczarowaniem.
I would choose to live a century in a dark room instead of hanging out with fake friends.
The child inside me wouldn't stop crying. Every time it loses something so important to it. A person or a thing it loves the most, I pretend like nothing happened. But I hear it sobbing helplessly ins...
Happiness is the most tired word in any language.
People start to lie more once they start to care less.
I wonder how many people don't get the one they want, but end up with the one they're supposed to be with.
Tomorrow, you promise yourself, things will be different, yet, tomorrow is too often a repetition of today. And you disappoint yourself again and again.
Every time my dreams threaten to become reality, something always happens and I end up alone.
When it's over no one cares what you did
One would think after all the disappointment life offers us unfortunate few we would give up the trifles connected with hope, feeling, belief and optimism in our fellow souls.
Thus we use our supposed knowledge of others to speak on their behalf, and condemn them for their words we ourselves put in their silent mouths.