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Once she had felt lost between the sheets, forgotten her own identity – no more. Her hands afraid to touch her face, fearing false and thin photographs – no more. Once she had felt tainted by distorted lullabies, singing wordless songs – no more. She is gone. She is gone. Once she had felt sorry for herself, taught to think that everything that was going wrong was her fault – no more. She is gone. She is gone. She wanted to wash away the man that wanted to protect her from the world, or so he said...goodbye...goodbye...goodbye...he is gone. Gone.
Leave me alone. I want you to leave me alone. Don't you understand. Don't you understand. Leave me alone. Leave me alone. I don't think I can listen to you anymore. I don't think I can see you anymore. You make me sick. You make me sad. Don't you understand. Don't you understand. Leave me alone. Leave me alone. I don't want to have to tell you that you're the problem. I don't want to have to tell you that you have to leave. Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Don't you understand. Don't you understand. I need some space.
When people speak about "great" art, it's not often that they would turn to their fridge for inspiration. A childhood drawing of a seascape is pinned to my fridge with magnets — one of my greatest works. I don't know how to appreciate Picasso, nor do I notice graffiti. However, I do know that art is a part of the artist. I have drawn far better, more beautiful pictures than the one that's tacked on my fridge, but it reminds me that "great" art doesn't have to be displayed in art galleries. "Great" art allows us to find peace within ourselves.
Turn up the stereo — ear pollution flooding my brain. Don't make it stop. Don't make it stop. Don't make it stop. Male vocal screams. Don't make it stop. Don't make it stop. Don't make it stop. Drums infectious — ear pollution flooding my brain. Don't make it stop. Don't make it stop. Don't make it stop. Guitar riffs — melodious, distorted. Don't make it stop. Don't make it stop. Don't make it stop. Ear pollution flooding my brain. Loud. Aggressive. Angry. Ear pollution flooding my brain. Don't make it stop. Don't make it stop. Turn up the stereo. He says: Fuck it
They don't go away just because we try to hide four letter words, graphic media, nudity. Doesn't make it disappear. We blur. We bleep. It's still there. Press delete. Cut and paste. Press delete. It's still there. Doesn't make it disappear. Doesn't make it disappear. Fuck. Shit. I don't give a damn. They're still there. They're still there. Fuck. Shit. Give me the finger. They're still there. They're still there. We're so cliched. Can't hide what's already there. It won't disappear. It won't disappear. Let's hear it just in case. Fill in the blanks. Life's a five letter word: B-I-T-C-H
Eye blink away, the taste of unfiltered cigarettes scrape his throat raw. She is a riddle he cannot unravel, hesitating in the false security of night, the familiar lantern light. The phone is disconnected and static tears at the fabric — an unavoidable disturbance. She unravels — mind, soul, heart, words. Does he understand her now? Does he understand her now? Does he understand? Light casting distorted squares. A broken yo-yo lays against his palm, there she dangles uncertain. Naked. Secrets stripped. Eye blink away, please let sleep rescue her tonight under the bruised purple sky. She unravels — mind, soul, heart, words.
Realization is pain. Love is pain. Truth is pain. It burns. It burns. Realization burns. Love burns. Truth burns. Be a good girl. Be a good boy. You know nothing. You see nothing. It burns. It burns. There are some things the public won't acknowledge. Things we cannot say. Things we cannot do. Realization burns. Love burns. Truth burns. It burns. It burns. Be a good girl. Be a good boy. You know nothing. You see nothing. Be a good girl. Be a good boy. You know nothing. You see nothing. Take every bite. Chew slowly...chew slowly...chew slowly...
I fear them boxes, folded and ready for packing tape. Hiding his clothes. His things. His scent. I cannot wash it from my hands. I cannot wash it away. I fear them boxes, stacked one upon the other. Heavy ones along the bottom. The room is bare. Everything is hidden. Everything is gone. Everything except his scent. In the air. In my bones. In my hair. I cannot wash it away. I cannot wash him away. He won't wash away. I fear them boxes. Take them away. Never come back. Never come back. Never come back. Never again. Never again.
Let me enter my swimming pool where I was once warm and safe — so that I may be born again as the tears in your eyes, echoing in the taste of your goodbyes. Let me be made again as the simple smile on your face — so that I may breathe again, crushed under your toenails. I feel it and I realize, a fragment of your time, echoing in the taste of your goodbyes. I thought I had it all, but I didn't. I only had a promise, a fear of the present, fear of the world. Now I have...possibilities...
Silence. Revision: stunned silence. Fingers, tendrils white and long, quiet and indecisive. What do you see? What do you fear? You pay for everything. You pay for everything. Words. Revision: profound words. Punctuated and unbelievable, take them or leave them. What do you see? What do you fear? You pay for everything. You pay for everything. Remember that. Death. Revision: eternal death. Unforgiving, dark and angry, seeing and knowing. What do you see? What do you fear? You pay for everything. You pay for everything. Where is silence. Where are words. Where is death. Revision: stunned. profound. eternal. Remember that.
There's a monkey picking at my brain, poking and prodding every which way. He screeches and screams incessantly, the smell of beer on his breath. Was this some kind of perverse joke? I dangled in what seemed to be impossibility. Resistance was futile. The smell of beer made my nose wrinkle (or at least it should have) I wonder what he's searching for, what purpose could I serve as a caged animal — Tortured. Dissected. Violated. The smell of beer strong on his breath. Was this some kind of perverse joke? The smell of beer around me. I wanted to vomit.
You don't need me anymore. I can see it in your eyes. These words come out as bubbles. The voice of one that's drowning. You're gone. You're gone. You don't need me anymore. You don't need me anymore. I once knew the words to say. The right expression to make you laugh and the right words to make you cry (I tried to never use them). Now you've acquired the gift of making me cry. You don't need me anymore. You don't need me anymore. You're gone. You're gone. You don't need me anymore. You're gone. You're gone. Gone away.
Poisoned stars. Does she hear them when she closes her eyes? She weeps the ghosts of tears, grateful for the simple warmth of familiar shadows across her body. A thousand shards of memory woven with spider webs. Pain is an old familiar friend. She weeps the ghosts of tears. Scour the walls. Does she hear them when she closes her eyes? She weeps the ghosts of tears. Cold hesitation barely above a whisper. She weeps the ghosts of tears. Let that sinner spit you out. Let that sinner spit you out. Spit you out. Spit you out. Spit you out.
Hand me the remote. Hand me the remote. Won't be your scapegoat anymore, anymore. Chatter fills the room, wake up to the tele, turn up the volume invading your head. Stay a little while, familiarize yourself, don't dare touch that dial, hand me the remote. Won't be your scapegoat anymore, anymore. Searching for answers, it's unlikely we'll find any of the answers we hunger for tonight. Flickering screens, there are no answers here in pixilated routines to which we submit. Hand me the remote. Hand me the remote. I won't be your scapegoat anymore, anymore. Won't be your scapegoat anymore.
Confused pandas we are, we are, against the bamboo mats. Our paws outstretched as we try to scratch each other's underbellies. Each other's underbellies. Each other's underbellies. Confused, confused, confused by our scents. Confused by our scents. Confused by our defecated remains. Defecated remains, remains. We stare at each other wondering, confused, confused. Confused by our clouded thoughts, drives and desires. Our drives and desires. Sitting across from each other confused, confused. Confused pandas we are, we are. Confused pandas we are. Confused pandas tossing in our sleep, in our sleep, in our sleep. Confused pandas tossing in our sleep.
Dancing clay marionettes both male and female wearing paper faces. They twirl and sway deliriously, creating a colourless swirl. Someone is laughing, broken and distant. No one finds this unusual. A piece of mirror allows me to glimpse at minute instances as paper faces move by. All of them are strangers posing as my close friends. The mirror allows me to see into each one behind the paper faces. They are themselves, not disguised. I knew, yet I didn't know them, they feared being seen, revealed. Thinking they are safe dancing as clay marionettes with paper faces. They became nothing.
This is me: a voice, a face, a body. I am these hands, these words, these actions. Do I exist or is it my surroundings that tell me I do? If I'm not real, then how is it that I can bleed? If my world isn't real then what is it that allows me to exist? This is me: blood, bones, tears. Perhaps I've died a long time ago — I am not the same person I used to be. I have the same body, same hurt, same blood, but I am lost now. I am trying to find my soul.
Running like a waterfall, worry invades my lungs. I suffocate, I can't fight it anymore. You come knocking at my door and I can feel my heart hammering, wanting to break. All this air is stale and these wrists start to look ready. I wait and wait but who gives a fuck. This euphoria is not real, these tears are glycerine (at least they are to you). My mask is melting and I'm afraid you'll see how fragile I am. You'll be my tourniquet, but you don't know it yet. You'll be my tourniquet, but you don't know it yet.
You are a poison pill, purely toxic. A hormone robot imprisoned in your own rainy day aura like twilight. I am so fractured, this band aid won't cover me. Glasshead, Glasshead, how could you do me like that? Wasted, you're so wasted potent poison pill. I wish I saw through you. Glasshead, Glasshead, how could you do me like that? You wanted my sympathy to roll in it, bathe and wash in my tears. Why did you fake it? Glasshead, Glasshead, how could you do me like that? Poison pill, poison pill, take this paper cup and choke just once...
I know I hid once before, but I won't do that anymore. I am here now, here I am. This is where I want to be, I am here to stay. I was afraid a long time ago, afraid to miss you, afraid to say goodbye. I pushed you away, so far away. I was a fool, please forgive me. I know I hid once before, but I won't do that anymore. I am here now, here I am. This is where I want to be, I am here to stay, to stay. Please tell me I'm not too late.
Growing up is tough: (what an understatement). There are so many wrong turns and misguided paths. No one lives up to your expectations. First kisses aren't magic. Friends turn their backs on you. At times like these you fall apart, then something happens...everything falls together, lock and key: road signs become clear. You give more and expect less. You accept that not all kisses are magic. Old friends return and new ones are made. Suddenly you're whole again. It is at these times, these sparse moments, no matter how few, how sudden, how unexplainable, growing up seems worth it...
I can't believe that he's such an asshole. If I knew he was a jerk then I would have never gotten close to him, never would have developed any feelings for him. But I was taken in. I was spun around and I was another passing face on his list. He didn't give two shits about me. I don't even know why I did. Now I see him in the hall and want to rip out his eyeballs. He'll pretend that he likes me. Now I can't stand to be around him anymore. It's these people that make me sad.
I read "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" today and have been thinking about it all day. Charlie is the main character. The book was written in the form of letters to an anonymous friend. I would like an anonymous friend. Someone that does not know me and therefore cannot judge me. Someone that will listen and not fuck with me. Someone who will just listen. I envy Charlie...he didn't have a perfect life, in fact, his life was pretty messed up, but I envy his ability to understand people. I like to sit and think about books sometimes...
The pharmacists have created something more potent than viagra. The marketing committee should have no trouble selling it, the product could sell itself. I wonder though, is it a pill: take two tablets when needed, or could it be a medicinal syrup: take one tablespoon no more than four times a day. Will it work on me? Orgasm? Maybe two? Or three? I was just curious...there should be insurance to cover: risk to health — death by excessive sex. Just curious. Better to be informed than uninformed. Sex in a bottle — might be for you, but it ain't for me.
These are the times of test tube babies, boyfriends in a box and sex in a bottle. What are we being reduced to — artificiality. Old shit revamped. We're too lazy to do anything. Naturalness is inferior, modification a necessity for survival. What is real anymore? The ground could crumble, computer networks malfunction. Order submit to chaos. Our high tech gadgets rendered useless. This could be our future, clouded by shadow. How can we give our children fiction, pseudo therapies, meaningless love. There is beauty in imperfection. Perfectly imperfect, that's what I am. Perfectly imperfect is how I want to stay.
Names are a socially crippling restraint impeded upon us. I decree that we must take action! We should practice the right to choose our own names and to break the restraints of rules and labels. If everything is taken away from us, then at least we'll have our names to hold on to. Our names will be our only conveyor of personal freedom. There will be no limitations! Let's raise up our hands and tell the world who we are. I shall call myself BITCH (Banish Ivory Tower, Command Humanitarianism) there is no need to bowdlerize the facts. Get real!
Like twins floating hand in hand in a womb, here we drown in our sorrow leaving little to imagine. We sigh and the world seems to stop like there aren't enough words to say. Frozen for just a moment in confusion, these are my thoughts — they'll be our facade — for all we know, time has stopped. Like twin souls floating, we're floating to infinity, virgins arm in arm floating weightlessly. The world seems so far away, only an echo secures our existence, unaware of fate — we tumble— burning axes like stars cosmically inclined. Nothing again. Perfect, containing nothing again. Blink.
You're an old sweater I had from long ago, but I hold on to the sentiment. You're worn like my skin. I can't give you up no matter how torn you are. I can't give you up. You are secondhand smoke. I knew a long time ago but I couldn't break the habit. You're intoxicating like fear, reason could not handcuff me to reality. I can't give you up no matter how bad you are. I can't give you up. I'll pretend to be oblivious for as long as I can. You're my surreptitious addiction. I can't give you up.
Heal me as I fall, falling back down to earth, down to a place of heavier things. I feel light experiencing the whiteness of the sun. My heart could burst. Head and arms. I'm leaving the feeling of implausible heaviness — the feeling of flawlessness. No need for historical connection or personal belongings. Heal me as I fall, falling back down to earth, down to a place of heavier things. People will find me, a uranium angel reentering the atmosphere, blazing as I leave a trail. They'll be watching and they'll be wondering without even knowing they're looking at a
So tired of waking up starting the day half asleep. I'm sick of turning thoughts in my head not sure if I'm still in bed. So tired. Shit happens and I'm sick of pretending like I understand you. Red tears, let me cry, let this quarter of my life hang to dry. So tired of wanting experiences in place of memories, forgetting that journeys turn out this way. The past is burning, burning red, these tears run through my veins. Maybe this is where the red tears go when they die: recycled, regenerated, reincarnated nickels and pennies red with rust.
The Tip Jar