(no subject)
come home i miss you, mister one Week it seems like forever. Afraid to be cliche, but scared of forgetting each scrape and each scorn, disintegrate with every step I take. Breathe in the memories don't smoke them away. Living too long to remember the bugs eye view of the world of your heros. Sprinklers and slides on riverdale Avenue: you'll always be my valentine. Even if I'm never forgiven for needing to write down all my memories for fear of forgetting childhood, forgetting innocence, worse than being stripped of, being deprived of, is forgetting. a sorrowful soul is one who's trapped it in a web of memories. it's okay to recall, it's okay to miss, but to crave for the past, to cry for the nineties, is no way to live. Teared stained 89 the laughter still pumps through my veins. I know it's gone so I sigh, I know I'm sick so I cry.
people jump in and out of my life, i never know whether to smile or to grieve, To whisper or to sing lullabies for babies. Baby, you're just a child. child so sweet & pure. People jump in and out of my life. Life, a book. at the begining and ends of chapters I cry. Cry to stain the pages wtih vulnerable tears of loss. Loss. In a few years this will never again be. Be grateful. Notes of love rebounding off his guitar strings fade with childhood. Childhood taken for granted, but forever missed. Missed desperations and 9 PM curfews that you complained were unfair. Unfair? But you're only a child. Who knew your longing to grow old would develop into a starving mess. Mess: The innocence strpped from the weak. You're only a child. And nothing but.
Love was built to spill all over the mixtapes and rides you gave me.
In the dark, you whispered sweet words but the melody to your songs were trite.
a skipping record, a dirty car. It meant nothing, the world is petty.
It seems as if I am dead to you but you still recite my wasted words in your poetry, you share my worry with the world and call it inspiration. tools working at their best. to despise, to care, to force these two things to learn to share... and cry about it? you never asked me to. I appreciate that.
our lips met and our bodies touched but I never called it Love.
people jump in and out of my life, i never know whether to smile or to grieve, To whisper or to sing lullabies for babies. Baby, you're just a child. child so sweet & pure. People jump in and out of my life. Life, a book. at the begining and ends of chapters I cry. Cry to stain the pages wtih vulnerable tears of loss. Loss. In a few years this will never again be. Be grateful. Notes of love rebounding off his guitar strings fade with childhood. Childhood taken for granted, but forever missed. Missed desperations and 9 PM curfews that you complained were unfair. Unfair? But you're only a child. Who knew your longing to grow old would develop into a starving mess. Mess: The innocence strpped from the weak. You're only a child. And nothing but.
Love was built to spill all over the mixtapes and rides you gave me.
In the dark, you whispered sweet words but the melody to your songs were trite.
a skipping record, a dirty car. It meant nothing, the world is petty.
It seems as if I am dead to you but you still recite my wasted words in your poetry, you share my worry with the world and call it inspiration. tools working at their best. to despise, to care, to force these two things to learn to share... and cry about it? you never asked me to. I appreciate that.
our lips met and our bodies touched but I never called it Love.