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| Nothing's ever simple. Thank your god for that. My feet and cracked and bleeding. I think I smell a rat. I'm not real good at trusting. People let you down. The bodies keep on burning. I hate this fucking town. The mighty, how they've fallen. Now lying on the ground. I keep on hearing voices. Yet there's no one around. The minority is winning. The majority is doomed. I'm out in the open. Yet I still feel entombed. Please just stop pretending. It does no one any good. Everyone is crying. Everybody should. Enough of all the nonsense, I've made myself feel sick. The point is, I love you. It's true, I fucking do. That's all that really matters. How I feel about you. | | |
| I always feel like someone's watching, the walls are made of eyes. It takes a certain kind of person to relate to the world through a TV screen. Fiction is all I know of fact and how things are supposed to be. There's a reason I lose myself in music, movies and words, it's because I can steal some feelings, some life, some moments, that never seem to come. Everything's a let down. Everyone's a fucking disappointment. There's nothing to be seen, there's nothing to be said. Show me something virgin, before I end up dead. I'm trying to be happy, I really fucking am. | | |
| Cue the trumpets and rally the swarm. Because goddamn it mother fucker, Christ has been reborn. Want not, waste not, don't twist my brain around. See, it's not that I care too little, it's that I care much too much. I've devoted too much time to morbid self analysis, now it's time for me to become a person, like other people. Just like Travis Bickle said. "It may seem a million miles away, but it gets a little closer everyday." | | |
| Afternoon or morning, day, twilight or night... what the fuck's the difference when the end's always in sight. Three separate tales of lunacy: 1. Every moment feels the same as the line twists, distorts, then blurs. This exhaustion weighs heavy like a phantom of regret, you can only push it so far before you turn on yourself. So, now I lay me down to sleep, but no sleep comes at all. I receive only broken glimpses of nightmares left undreamt, fragments of a memory that I can't yet call my own. The meaning's in the madness, the truth found inside the lie. In order for one to get ahead, the other one must die. 2. Enough of the nonsense, the story's actually quite simple indeed. A confused young man searches for what he thinks he needs. But under every stone he picks up, under every little tree, he finds another question, another mystery. So he'll just keep on walking, until he runs out of street, for all he's ever known is this ground beneath his feet. 3. My red right hand is trembling, as I sit amongst the dead. For I know I'm not special, it needs not to be said. All the words you say to me, you've said time and time before. You'll say them to another, when I've gone off to war. For we're all merely filling space, we're all just passing through. But all the thoughts my brain churns out... they all come back to you... This life is a massacre and I'm running out of space. | | |
| In an attempt to re-learn how to write I've begun keeping a journal of sorts. Which will forever be known as "The Chronicles of Suck-Dick". No one will ever see these journals mind you, but it'll be a good exercise in getting myself away from the cryptic, sentence fragment strewn horse shit I normally type out. We'll see how long it lasts. I want to go for a walk, but it's 3:43 in the morning, Eastern Standard time, and I have to be up early. There is no logical reason as to why I am still awake. Yet, I am. I'll have to fix that. Among other things. | | |
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