(no subject)
- Title: Statements of Vanity
- Author: breaking_vanity
- Pairing: Frank..centric. But implications of another prescence, and that would be Pete
- Rating: R, at most I would believe
- Summary: Bustling, running, trying, and for what but an empty purpose. Nothing, no time, no future. A paper cut across your wrist, bleeding, but it was everything in shapes of a temporary accident with permanent release.
- POV: Frankie
- Authors Note: in segmens that sort of piece themselves together. Not quite a vignette, but damn close.
- Disclaimer: Im a self-destruction peainting of a liar. So what does that manek you again?
Statements of Vanity
Whore. Loser. Wannabe. Afraid because no one understands the complications of the cracks upon a broken reflection. Mocking, and he laughs it off until the hurt is numb. Your blood, my morphine, your gun, my salvation. Conflict, and it’s so dirty, as moans of a pained pulse inside lethargic weakness. Shivers, between two bodies, alone begging on your knees for touch, the only satisfaction of never ending lust They never sleep, these feelings. Rid of the tearing hurt between my two soul’s nightmares. One here, in the flesh and universe, the rest alone in a world of pure darkness. It binds no peace to bracelets of scars made by humiliation.
He stood tall.
As I feel.
And he yelled
As I whispered no goodbye
And he takes his own life.
I am but a weakness of spirited flesh.
A time bomb set to sixteen, a life that burns itself to fallen stars and stares. Flecks of gravestone set in rock and siren. These sirens that mean a wall against my back, iced tears a statement of vanity and style. Spoken scripts, alone, repeated pasts in blackened film, my testament to lies. I’ll shoot you with a gun of nothing but revenge with a purpose. Of seconds ticking away, and I lost all sense of meaning last year when life meant less than what it means right now.
***
It’ s not over yet, not by a long shot. Too many years, too many opportunities left to miss. Im hiding, sleeping, lying away heartbreak of the unforgiving. I’m wearing your mask, to cover up the sparks of once colored destinies. Lovers, sinners, devil’s children. Innocent faces, and the difficulty of compromising who you are and who you once wanted to be. Escaping the labels that are handed to you as a pair of deadly emotions every day of your meaning (less) full life. I don’t know if I like this, or if I hate it, if it will bring no difference to the grave my body will burn in. As a reflection, grown up, in touch with the vilest of human actions. Those who do not see the passion inside every few hearts. Caring for only yourself, and not of those glass figurines that still have everything going for them.
Shut up! Shut Up!
Stop telling me to laugh, smile, matter. Tainted, marked dirty. To what? Another truth among a pool of lies? In purified blood that deserves nothing but pains of making life what it is. The world ends, and no one mentions after, and im scared of what? After the inevitable thunders down in the forms of toxic pills poured into a bottle of vicodin.
***
Fucking incredible. Its true what they say about obsession. I feel like I’ve been drinking for hours on end, but I haven’t even touched a cigarette in days. So cold, and so unemotionally dull. Picking up the damn pen, as the paper opposes my years of living, wrecked inside. What to do, when nothing is right anymore, and life is but the twisted idea of believing in the deceit that surrounds another stereotypical image. Black hair covered, visions, the prayer for escape. This town isn’t for dreams, but idiots with a future that has more possibilities then a suicide. But suicide doesn’t kill people darling, sadness does. This blood. This trigger. These pills. Where has the alcohol disappeared to inside my nightmares? A way of waking up after a chills has passed into the hangovers, and tears.
Next time you call, don’t expect an answer short of Fuck You. Because all I have left is the drunken stupor of things that never were, and fucks that meant more then forgiveness.
***
Certain aspects of knowing your mind, and uncovering those deranged secrets it keeps. Remember the drawings, taking hours at a time, each stroke of insanity’s genius. Conducting to the dancers improvisations among gravestones, and the beat of a mute rhythm only she and you hear. Heads thrown back, as your knife keeps the beat upon pulsating veins. I think of the lights, and my head weighs nothing. Hearts carved into trees, to cover all the possible survival opportunities. My conscience thrives on payback and guilty inhalations of deadly fumes. Poetic suicides, these never change. A cycle of the past repeating itself and imposing proposals to marry me before the flickering of one last chance.
These people, all these lives wasted into a pit of oblivion. Washing away the marks upon your self destruction sketch, but cleansed the memories of love as well. Bustling, running, trying, and for what but an empty purpose. Nothing, no time, no future. A paper cut across your wrist, bleeding, but it was everything in shapes of a temporary accident with permanent release.
PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE
Im not done, im nowhere close to finished with my vengeance, in hopes of seeking perfection, or more accurately, hoping perfection will find me. Who the hell do you think you are? My lips, my smile, my smirk. Killing sadness with a kiss of tragedy and the whistling wind of a bullet to hell. Don’t ask me why, or when, or how…but answer the pleading lipstick stains, irresistible, and a curse on your mirror. Walking past crowds of kids, whose world’s rise and fall and break, and put themselves together. Everyday. Week. Year.
Dilated pupils, sparkling eyelashes of chains. Focus on my grave, and how no one will cry but an ashen ray of a soul in misery.
For dying cliché ways
Among the smoke of your last cigarette
Ash, it sears
Leaving permanent remains of a broken home
And a slit chance of a future worth living for.
1988-2005
- Author: breaking_vanity
- Pairing: Frank..centric. But implications of another prescence, and that would be Pete
- Rating: R, at most I would believe
- Summary: Bustling, running, trying, and for what but an empty purpose. Nothing, no time, no future. A paper cut across your wrist, bleeding, but it was everything in shapes of a temporary accident with permanent release.
- POV: Frankie
- Authors Note: in segmens that sort of piece themselves together. Not quite a vignette, but damn close.
- Disclaimer: Im a self-destruction peainting of a liar. So what does that manek you again?
Statements of Vanity
Whore. Loser. Wannabe. Afraid because no one understands the complications of the cracks upon a broken reflection. Mocking, and he laughs it off until the hurt is numb. Your blood, my morphine, your gun, my salvation. Conflict, and it’s so dirty, as moans of a pained pulse inside lethargic weakness. Shivers, between two bodies, alone begging on your knees for touch, the only satisfaction of never ending lust They never sleep, these feelings. Rid of the tearing hurt between my two soul’s nightmares. One here, in the flesh and universe, the rest alone in a world of pure darkness. It binds no peace to bracelets of scars made by humiliation.
He stood tall.
As I feel.
And he yelled
As I whispered no goodbye
And he takes his own life.
I am but a weakness of spirited flesh.
A time bomb set to sixteen, a life that burns itself to fallen stars and stares. Flecks of gravestone set in rock and siren. These sirens that mean a wall against my back, iced tears a statement of vanity and style. Spoken scripts, alone, repeated pasts in blackened film, my testament to lies. I’ll shoot you with a gun of nothing but revenge with a purpose. Of seconds ticking away, and I lost all sense of meaning last year when life meant less than what it means right now.
***
It’ s not over yet, not by a long shot. Too many years, too many opportunities left to miss. Im hiding, sleeping, lying away heartbreak of the unforgiving. I’m wearing your mask, to cover up the sparks of once colored destinies. Lovers, sinners, devil’s children. Innocent faces, and the difficulty of compromising who you are and who you once wanted to be. Escaping the labels that are handed to you as a pair of deadly emotions every day of your meaning (less) full life. I don’t know if I like this, or if I hate it, if it will bring no difference to the grave my body will burn in. As a reflection, grown up, in touch with the vilest of human actions. Those who do not see the passion inside every few hearts. Caring for only yourself, and not of those glass figurines that still have everything going for them.
Shut up! Shut Up!
Stop telling me to laugh, smile, matter. Tainted, marked dirty. To what? Another truth among a pool of lies? In purified blood that deserves nothing but pains of making life what it is. The world ends, and no one mentions after, and im scared of what? After the inevitable thunders down in the forms of toxic pills poured into a bottle of vicodin.
***
Fucking incredible. Its true what they say about obsession. I feel like I’ve been drinking for hours on end, but I haven’t even touched a cigarette in days. So cold, and so unemotionally dull. Picking up the damn pen, as the paper opposes my years of living, wrecked inside. What to do, when nothing is right anymore, and life is but the twisted idea of believing in the deceit that surrounds another stereotypical image. Black hair covered, visions, the prayer for escape. This town isn’t for dreams, but idiots with a future that has more possibilities then a suicide. But suicide doesn’t kill people darling, sadness does. This blood. This trigger. These pills. Where has the alcohol disappeared to inside my nightmares? A way of waking up after a chills has passed into the hangovers, and tears.
Next time you call, don’t expect an answer short of Fuck You. Because all I have left is the drunken stupor of things that never were, and fucks that meant more then forgiveness.
***
Certain aspects of knowing your mind, and uncovering those deranged secrets it keeps. Remember the drawings, taking hours at a time, each stroke of insanity’s genius. Conducting to the dancers improvisations among gravestones, and the beat of a mute rhythm only she and you hear. Heads thrown back, as your knife keeps the beat upon pulsating veins. I think of the lights, and my head weighs nothing. Hearts carved into trees, to cover all the possible survival opportunities. My conscience thrives on payback and guilty inhalations of deadly fumes. Poetic suicides, these never change. A cycle of the past repeating itself and imposing proposals to marry me before the flickering of one last chance.
These people, all these lives wasted into a pit of oblivion. Washing away the marks upon your self destruction sketch, but cleansed the memories of love as well. Bustling, running, trying, and for what but an empty purpose. Nothing, no time, no future. A paper cut across your wrist, bleeding, but it was everything in shapes of a temporary accident with permanent release.
PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE
Im not done, im nowhere close to finished with my vengeance, in hopes of seeking perfection, or more accurately, hoping perfection will find me. Who the hell do you think you are? My lips, my smile, my smirk. Killing sadness with a kiss of tragedy and the whistling wind of a bullet to hell. Don’t ask me why, or when, or how…but answer the pleading lipstick stains, irresistible, and a curse on your mirror. Walking past crowds of kids, whose world’s rise and fall and break, and put themselves together. Everyday. Week. Year.
Dilated pupils, sparkling eyelashes of chains. Focus on my grave, and how no one will cry but an ashen ray of a soul in misery.
For dying cliché ways
Among the smoke of your last cigarette
Ash, it sears
Leaving permanent remains of a broken home
And a slit chance of a future worth living for.
1988-2005