I think our flag is stupid looking. That is the sole reason.
I just try to make life not hurt until every 4-6 weeks when I can see you again.
"Do you really think Adam would cut his own rib out just to get some pussy?"
-Connor Watson.
My brain is fried-
My thoughts askew,
Back to things
You Didn't
Do.
September to July
Wasn't long enough
Introverted, you didn't
Hit Me
'Til the end.
I cry into my knees,
Sometimes, missing you.
No touch is ever
Stone Enough
To satisfy the anger.
No touch is ever
Cold Enough
To ice away the pain.
Your stony eyes tell stories
That others don't.
I can't read them.
But Maybe That's A Good Thing
For me.
Sometimes, the roar of music
I've never even heard
Is so familiar,
I Can Hear Your Voice Whisper,
But never approach
Audibility.
Regret.
I see those photographs and it all comes rushing back.
I was in my basement, I was wallowing in my fear, depression, and self pity. I loved every minute of it. I refused to visit you because I hadn't showered in three days. That's who I was. I swore at you because I didn't shower.
I guess the important thing is that you all are in my life now, but I see those photographs and it all comes rushing back.
You didn't need me.
You didn't want me.
You didn't notice me.
You were angry at me.
I see those photographs and it all comes rushing back.
You admiring her.
You stroking her.
You needing her.
You wanting her.
In the photo, she's wearing that necklace that now belongs to me. Her legs are draped over yours, and she looks relaxed and happy and comfortable. I can't read you. I can't read you. I can't read you. I can't read you. I can't read you.
The important thing is, the necklace is mine now. The important thing is you don't even glance at her anymore.
But it still hurts.
Why?
------------------------------------------
"Kylie"
Kylie,
You're a slave to the machine.
We all know, we all know.
Kylie,
Don't apologize to me.
Don't grovel at my feet.
Its so unbecomming.
We all know, we all know.
---------------------------------
Jenny,
Do you wish you were me?
Or should I be wishing
That I were more like you.
You can be number four.
In the picture, you're pointing at yourself. You have a really stupid look on your face, your mouth is wide open and your eyes are plastered into fake shock. I imagine you saying, in a very Betty Boop-esque way, "Who, me?"
Accompanied, of course, by that famous, ditzy giggle.
"Oh, I'm so stupid!" Isn't that the only way you can get people to laugh at what you say?
So, I'm number one. Number two and three are sitting with me in the parlor.
"I'm really jealous of number four, but I despise her at the same time."
Number two and three have never been the types to rush to reassure me, but this time they're jumping all over it.
"Why would you be jealous of her? Her face is completely unremarkable."
"I agree with number three."
I struggle to fathom my emotions.
Love/hate, how possible is that, really.
Your soul is like a landscape fantasy,
Where masks and Bergamasks, in charming wise,
Strum lutes and dance, just a bit sad to be
Hidden beneath their fanciful disguise.
Singing in minor mode of life's largesse
And all-victorious love, they yet seem quite
Reluctant to believe their happiness,
And their song mingles with the pale moonlight,
The calm, pale moonlight, whose sad beauty, beaming,
Sets the birds softly dreaming in the trees,
And makes the marbled fountains, gushing, streaming--
Slender jet-fountains--sob their ecstasies.
"Those are the best fuckin' lyrics I ever heard. Let's start a rock n' roll band and make a million dollars."
-Raymond Daniel Manzarek.
