Baby Bitch
"youth is not a Brett easton ellis novel and there are reprocussions for the damaging actions taken in the interest of achieving a selfish anti kitch."
For someone, who throughout his past has on many seperate incidences, declared a newfound perspective and fresh start
I have
decided
if you can call it that.
Talk is cheaper than the bodys we throw around
My mother looked at me this weekend and despite much sorrow on her sons face declared "I love you, you are a good man."
I will not waste time with someone so loving and dear showing nothing but my sadness and strife
"you are a good man"
Just words,
just words.
so why do I wake up early, eat right, watch the sun set.
Just words huh
The one person whos heard all my silly problems, once again giving me the only thing I need.
Long talks
self analysis
and her only words, "I love you, you are a good man"
and like some sort of grinch a shriveled boy grew five times taller
The idea of dependance and pain,
what do we strive to put in our lives, what do we sacrifice for
At 21 years, 21 is just a number, trite like so many words I'v slang in this equation of 3
I still spell bad, I still find myself in bad habbitts
But I am here, for once in my life I'm in a place where I don't know where I'm going
theres no escape plan I will humour
frightening indeed
I'v come home, and yes this is home
this is where I sleep, where I cause pain where I experience joy
where I must wake everyday and learn how to embrace it as a new experience in that same
comfortable
bed
I'v realized how much I let myself change on tour, for all intensive purposes the different person I sunk into
based so much on immediacy and anger and pain, so much pain.
As if the nature of the lifestyle I lived in was not enough I had to create a nomadic personallity to compliment the cavier with cracker.
fell apart, only a matter of time
Left a wake of discomfort and damage
And now I'm back, in many ways
the notion of no eternal return
the boys we once were
the people we will be
The things we lose
the things we give away
And here, a man of sorts, a boy of sorts
but just here, running and watching the sun set, calming the storm he left
constructing that man his mother loves
some things are so blinding but so simple
No eternal return
no cyclonic conscience
Just simple words
"Turn it around"
just words,
dead leaves
drowning suns
broken cups
I became a person I hated so much that I could not stand the thought of bearing such a weight for another day. An embodiement of eveything I worked so hard for broken. Amidst the "wake" of hurt caused I wish I could express how it fealt to collapse in the old house, to tell his mother her son had become a failure, drive through his old streets paved with the sweat and aspirations of his youth. And to look into the mirror, really look, and see the sadness of a broken resolve staring back. It hurt so damn much. I had to let it go, let myself start to heal. It still hurts, I still see the effects, I still look in the mirror and see someone not yet the person desired. But I looked in that same mirror the other day and, for the first time in so long, saw someone familiar childishly smiling back. Just to be amaized at really seing his own reflection, not just the write off of an undesired shell. I smiled very wide, I walked so smug.
And so here I am, just watching the sun set in late fall
Amidst so much comes the theme of dependance
And finally I am dependant on the leaves that fall
in all their smiling mirror joy
and One lined justifications of existance
that they will change color
they will fall
Our legs not dragging but breazing through
their piles
The futility of all it's unstopable nature
Our colors change, some years we drag
To embrace the beauty in the nature of change
Man inherently experiences the nature of vertigo when he is confronted with the spacial asthetic of height and lowered distance. To experience vertigo on a level of psyche and emmotion can only be more terrifyng than staring down the greatest falls of the amazon, the highest buildings in metropolis. Our desire to kiss the ground and the fear and pain it may cause, the ways in which we fall to this point. Whether we crumble under this umbearable weight of falling, the strife of watching oneself slip. What makes a man we might ask; in the face of vertigo that is. Perhaps the ability to remove the temptress of distance, the ideal of steady footing. Furthermore our ability to pick up, and carry on. maybe.
Do the leaves feal vertigo
do they scream as they fall from branch
Is concrete a color of fall we are so blind to
Do they rejoice in the flight,
"what fools they yell"
we do not fall,
run to grass, to winter
to spring and stretch
out our arms like the greatest oak
we will
The leaves feel no Vertigo
I'm drunk, this is all most likely worth ignoring, of course thats probably me being overly self conscience. Cheers the sunset for me and skip with the leaves, not over with weight.
For someone, who throughout his past has on many seperate incidences, declared a newfound perspective and fresh start
I have
decided
if you can call it that.
Talk is cheaper than the bodys we throw around
My mother looked at me this weekend and despite much sorrow on her sons face declared "I love you, you are a good man."
I will not waste time with someone so loving and dear showing nothing but my sadness and strife
"you are a good man"
Just words,
just words.
so why do I wake up early, eat right, watch the sun set.
Just words huh
The one person whos heard all my silly problems, once again giving me the only thing I need.
Long talks
self analysis
and her only words, "I love you, you are a good man"
and like some sort of grinch a shriveled boy grew five times taller
The idea of dependance and pain,
what do we strive to put in our lives, what do we sacrifice for
At 21 years, 21 is just a number, trite like so many words I'v slang in this equation of 3
I still spell bad, I still find myself in bad habbitts
But I am here, for once in my life I'm in a place where I don't know where I'm going
theres no escape plan I will humour
frightening indeed
I'v come home, and yes this is home
this is where I sleep, where I cause pain where I experience joy
where I must wake everyday and learn how to embrace it as a new experience in that same
comfortable
bed
I'v realized how much I let myself change on tour, for all intensive purposes the different person I sunk into
based so much on immediacy and anger and pain, so much pain.
As if the nature of the lifestyle I lived in was not enough I had to create a nomadic personallity to compliment the cavier with cracker.
fell apart, only a matter of time
Left a wake of discomfort and damage
And now I'm back, in many ways
the notion of no eternal return
the boys we once were
the people we will be
The things we lose
the things we give away
And here, a man of sorts, a boy of sorts
but just here, running and watching the sun set, calming the storm he left
constructing that man his mother loves
some things are so blinding but so simple
No eternal return
no cyclonic conscience
Just simple words
"Turn it around"
just words,
dead leaves
drowning suns
broken cups
I became a person I hated so much that I could not stand the thought of bearing such a weight for another day. An embodiement of eveything I worked so hard for broken. Amidst the "wake" of hurt caused I wish I could express how it fealt to collapse in the old house, to tell his mother her son had become a failure, drive through his old streets paved with the sweat and aspirations of his youth. And to look into the mirror, really look, and see the sadness of a broken resolve staring back. It hurt so damn much. I had to let it go, let myself start to heal. It still hurts, I still see the effects, I still look in the mirror and see someone not yet the person desired. But I looked in that same mirror the other day and, for the first time in so long, saw someone familiar childishly smiling back. Just to be amaized at really seing his own reflection, not just the write off of an undesired shell. I smiled very wide, I walked so smug.
And so here I am, just watching the sun set in late fall
Amidst so much comes the theme of dependance
And finally I am dependant on the leaves that fall
in all their smiling mirror joy
and One lined justifications of existance
that they will change color
they will fall
Our legs not dragging but breazing through
their piles
The futility of all it's unstopable nature
Our colors change, some years we drag
To embrace the beauty in the nature of change
Man inherently experiences the nature of vertigo when he is confronted with the spacial asthetic of height and lowered distance. To experience vertigo on a level of psyche and emmotion can only be more terrifyng than staring down the greatest falls of the amazon, the highest buildings in metropolis. Our desire to kiss the ground and the fear and pain it may cause, the ways in which we fall to this point. Whether we crumble under this umbearable weight of falling, the strife of watching oneself slip. What makes a man we might ask; in the face of vertigo that is. Perhaps the ability to remove the temptress of distance, the ideal of steady footing. Furthermore our ability to pick up, and carry on. maybe.
Do the leaves feal vertigo
do they scream as they fall from branch
Is concrete a color of fall we are so blind to
Do they rejoice in the flight,
"what fools they yell"
we do not fall,
run to grass, to winter
to spring and stretch
out our arms like the greatest oak
we will
The leaves feel no Vertigo
I'm drunk, this is all most likely worth ignoring, of course thats probably me being overly self conscience. Cheers the sunset for me and skip with the leaves, not over with weight.