Call me morbid, call me pale. (I can't forget but I can't remember who.)
I came home after a paranoid little day and took off all my clothes. I put lipstick on and I then got in bed. I forced Cohen out of my mouth and watched the spiral fold up, it reminded me of a spindle of thread falling under a antigravity sudden. The sound of smoke drifted out my window, and in the sun I thought I was beautiful, for a second's worth of thought.
It's been written off as PMS teen angst by someone. But I've never been one to write off anything because I enjoy the poetic crap, and the deeper side of shallowness. Laying there, I pretended I just existed and I wasn't alive, and I imagined a tiny funeral. Cohen as my requiem, music as my God and flakey ish memoirs as a legacy to a random finder.
They make me think of WW1 with all these fucking alliances. Best friends, crushes, we're all protected by a few people. And then when I go down, I really go down, and I'm looking at the people, truly questioning how much they are my 'friend'. I know if Tina doesn't like someone, then I usually don't like them either, says the hypocritical teenage. You know we'll be friends, forever. In my own defence, (I feel I have the right to blunt it because no one else could think to.) the reason why Tina and I are such good friends is that we judge the same, mostly, from shoes to abstracts to human character (I'm talking ethics, here, shoot me.) But are we Britain or Germany? I often forget which side we're fighting for. I just know we're together, even though the rest of you want to shoot me.
You know, I enjoy the afternoons the best. Waking up, or getting home, when my red room is filled with sun and the windows are open. I play music loud enough so everyone can feel it. I like to think my neighbors pause to hear it, in a calm sort of way. It's this pattern of nudity, smoke and music that has become a simple lustrate.
If you ask me, I'll tell you there's no one that I hate. But I lie, sometimes, like anyone else. I don't know how long I can continue lying about these things. These goddamned loyalties and their lethargic fates. I'm tempted to begin with a profanity chant. But no, not everyone's bad. You don't need me to tell you that, then again, you don't know what you need until it's gone.
Somehow, I got into English AP, even though I failed the test. Clap on talked to English teacher who said I am a good writer. And I just got in, without a writing sample, even. My luck always suprises me. I'm not saying I'm a bad writer, but there really aren't any good writers still around. With exceptions, such as Bill. He sent me a poem which he wrote. When I read it, all I could think of was how untainted and pure it is. I can't even describe it as much as I want to, if I could just touch your forehead and push some sort of happy thoughtful energy into your mind..
Some people never suprise me. At all. And I knew that he was so smart and I knew he'd get in and I know he'll leave as soon as he can and I know he'll be great and famous. I don't mean this in the sort of crush way, or the jealousy route or anything. I've just noticed for so long how perfectly able some people are.. And how perfectly able some people aren't.
It's been written off as PMS teen angst by someone. But I've never been one to write off anything because I enjoy the poetic crap, and the deeper side of shallowness. Laying there, I pretended I just existed and I wasn't alive, and I imagined a tiny funeral. Cohen as my requiem, music as my God and flakey ish memoirs as a legacy to a random finder.
They make me think of WW1 with all these fucking alliances. Best friends, crushes, we're all protected by a few people. And then when I go down, I really go down, and I'm looking at the people, truly questioning how much they are my 'friend'. I know if Tina doesn't like someone, then I usually don't like them either, says the hypocritical teenage. You know we'll be friends, forever. In my own defence, (I feel I have the right to blunt it because no one else could think to.) the reason why Tina and I are such good friends is that we judge the same, mostly, from shoes to abstracts to human character (I'm talking ethics, here, shoot me.) But are we Britain or Germany? I often forget which side we're fighting for. I just know we're together, even though the rest of you want to shoot me.
You know, I enjoy the afternoons the best. Waking up, or getting home, when my red room is filled with sun and the windows are open. I play music loud enough so everyone can feel it. I like to think my neighbors pause to hear it, in a calm sort of way. It's this pattern of nudity, smoke and music that has become a simple lustrate.
If you ask me, I'll tell you there's no one that I hate. But I lie, sometimes, like anyone else. I don't know how long I can continue lying about these things. These goddamned loyalties and their lethargic fates. I'm tempted to begin with a profanity chant. But no, not everyone's bad. You don't need me to tell you that, then again, you don't know what you need until it's gone.
Somehow, I got into English AP, even though I failed the test. Clap on talked to English teacher who said I am a good writer. And I just got in, without a writing sample, even. My luck always suprises me. I'm not saying I'm a bad writer, but there really aren't any good writers still around. With exceptions, such as Bill. He sent me a poem which he wrote. When I read it, all I could think of was how untainted and pure it is. I can't even describe it as much as I want to, if I could just touch your forehead and push some sort of happy thoughtful energy into your mind..
Some people never suprise me. At all. And I knew that he was so smart and I knew he'd get in and I know he'll leave as soon as he can and I know he'll be great and famous. I don't mean this in the sort of crush way, or the jealousy route or anything. I've just noticed for so long how perfectly able some people are.. And how perfectly able some people aren't.