2005-09-01 - 7:45 p.m.
"I'll make you feel brand new 'cause I'm the devil in you." - Handsome Devil, "Devil In You"
Poetry. Crap. All these lies. Anyone can do it. Produce that droning, dull crap they'd love to believe meant something to someone. Oh, baby, didn't you realize you're helpless? Nothing to save you now, from the ugliness you possess. Flicker. Twitch. Hurts, doesn't it? And it won't go away. When you start to see how pointless existence is, you can't help but want to kill, kill yourself. It's futile to fight. The only way out now is death, or a coma. Like to be a vegetable, would you? You already are. Plug me in. I'm going out.
We're surrounded by these images. These stupid idols. We have no sense of reality, and here I am thinking I'd love to be the next Ginsberg. Let's shoot up, baby.
If you want to catch my eye, here's a little advice: Talk nerdy/geeky, smell good, and wear a chip on your shoulder. The world would be a brighter place. Your tattoos would color it in. No lines. One line. Draw a line from my heart to yours. What it comes down to is a whole lot of begging and crying.
Sometimes I'm amazed, amazed at all the crap I've ever written and gotten away with, because, really, when did I write it? And how? Now I can discern only the emotions, and not the incidences which prompted them. That's ok. Memories shouldn't last forever, and emotions never die.
I did this to myself. The summer air burning in my lungs. One more glance 'til I come undone. Let's stop this rising sun." - Comeback Kid, "Partners In Crime"
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