glazed eyes and bloodshot smiles.
it's six a.m. and i'm brushing silk-spun steel support cables from my arms. goddamn spiders, always at work trying to catch something. it reminds me of that one really catchy song by the band whos singer thinks she's too good for the rest of them now.
i have that feeling in my stomach where it's empty && full at the same time. and i hate it. i had a yellow backpack strapped on tight with patches and buttons of bands i never listen to anymore. filled with cd's, a jacket, and a scarf. some pens && pencils. a notebook, a couple safety pins. everything you need to survive, the bare essentials.
you know that feeling you get, when you're doing a shot of alcohol you don't particularly like? yeah, the gag reflex. well, with me it's vlad. there are a few reasons why i can't drink it anymore, and those precious few who know what i'm talking about, well, i'm sure they'll let this story die down eventually. at any rate, you have the small one point five fluid ounce glass in your hand. you're smiling at it, it's smiling at you, and then all at once it's in your mouth and ready to drop. but it doesn't. it hangs there,laughing at you. you don't wanna seem like a pussy, so you tough it out, swallow it and laugh back at it and call for another. but maybe, this is just a shitty metaphor.
there was this one time, that i thought i'd never get your name off of my lips. && when it finally happened, i was relieved. no, estatic. to be able to wake up and breathe. just fucking. breathe. needless to say, there are still things i need to speak to you, but i'll never get the chance. nor do i really want it.
i was walking by a small creek, and i tossed in a penny. not because i believe in that nonsensical rubbish, but beacuse it was the carefree thing to do. you know, waste money on things that you won't benefit from. maybe i'm trying to speak to someone right now, i don't know. but at any rate, i wished that maybe you'd smile at me. or maybe i wished that i'd wake the fuck up.
recently, i told someone that i never thought i'd be as cynical and jaded as i am now. not even two years ago, i was sure i had it all figured out. nearing my twentieth birthday, well, just shy of a year away. i realize how fucking naive i was. i wish i could change. that i could take things at fact value. but i can't, or maybe i just won't.
they say all the great writers don't ask questions in writing. but, that's bullshit, isn't it? of course it is. all my favorite authors did it. and most, if not all, are great writers. but, i've also been told i look for inspiration in all of the wrong places.
i need someone to run their fingers through my hair until i fall asleep.
i have that feeling in my stomach where it's empty && full at the same time. and i hate it. i had a yellow backpack strapped on tight with patches and buttons of bands i never listen to anymore. filled with cd's, a jacket, and a scarf. some pens && pencils. a notebook, a couple safety pins. everything you need to survive, the bare essentials.
you know that feeling you get, when you're doing a shot of alcohol you don't particularly like? yeah, the gag reflex. well, with me it's vlad. there are a few reasons why i can't drink it anymore, and those precious few who know what i'm talking about, well, i'm sure they'll let this story die down eventually. at any rate, you have the small one point five fluid ounce glass in your hand. you're smiling at it, it's smiling at you, and then all at once it's in your mouth and ready to drop. but it doesn't. it hangs there,laughing at you. you don't wanna seem like a pussy, so you tough it out, swallow it and laugh back at it and call for another. but maybe, this is just a shitty metaphor.
there was this one time, that i thought i'd never get your name off of my lips. && when it finally happened, i was relieved. no, estatic. to be able to wake up and breathe. just fucking. breathe. needless to say, there are still things i need to speak to you, but i'll never get the chance. nor do i really want it.
i was walking by a small creek, and i tossed in a penny. not because i believe in that nonsensical rubbish, but beacuse it was the carefree thing to do. you know, waste money on things that you won't benefit from. maybe i'm trying to speak to someone right now, i don't know. but at any rate, i wished that maybe you'd smile at me. or maybe i wished that i'd wake the fuck up.
recently, i told someone that i never thought i'd be as cynical and jaded as i am now. not even two years ago, i was sure i had it all figured out. nearing my twentieth birthday, well, just shy of a year away. i realize how fucking naive i was. i wish i could change. that i could take things at fact value. but i can't, or maybe i just won't.
they say all the great writers don't ask questions in writing. but, that's bullshit, isn't it? of course it is. all my favorite authors did it. and most, if not all, are great writers. but, i've also been told i look for inspiration in all of the wrong places.
i need someone to run their fingers through my hair until i fall asleep.