2005-04-04 - 7:23 p.m.
"Entertain the hope that somehow you'll escape me. Weld the bolts and close the iron gates. Drink deeply the illusion of your safety. My, how wishful thoughts inebriate." - Thrice, "The Red Death"
At least it's not Black Death.
Hide behind walls and windows. Wait for a signal that never comes.
You watch your life pass you by, simply because you no longer care what happens to you. If only you could find a reason to try. No crushes. There hasn't been anyone for the longest time, and you know why. Avoid pain whenever possible. Inflict it upon yourself. There's nothing that you find worthy in yourself, so why should they? You fake. Every time you smile, it's that old song once again. A smile that looks out of place, hiding the tracks of your tears. Glare to keep people away. Eye liner is war paint. Don't look into my eyes. There's nothing there. Vapid. Tortured.
Focusing is problematic. Mind wandering. It's a wonder you ever get anything done. ADD. If you could stop trembling, perhaps you could type. Perhaps your brain would function and you wouldn't be left thinking, Better Off Dead - and not the band. Poison, poison. It's in the water and it's in your veins. Junkie. Sip that coffee one more time and you'll shoot yourself in the head. It's what you want. Destruction. Increments. Add 'em up and ship 'em off.
Chipped black nails. Looks like they're rotting the same as you. You do? You do.
It's a mess, a swirl, a sampling of everything you wanted, but it means nothing. Band shirts, black nail polish, and posters. Books. Nancy Drew dancing on top of Fight Club. Tissues and papers strewn all over the room. CDs spilling out from boxes. You can find a whole lot of nothings in bargain bins.
"Burn yourself out. Die too soon. You see the world is only temporary. Everybody's scared that they'll be no one too." - The Juliana Theory, "This Is Your Life"
�
�
