Shoot me with plastic bullets
I dont know whats wrong with me.
Im going through identity crisis
Staring into the mirror at herself, she had never felt a sense of gratification. She had never seen the beauty they spoke of. She saw another girl. A girl who shared the same face, but a different essence. One that wanted to tell the world everything she knew, but never found the right words. Washing away her disguise she felt more alive than ever before.
More herself then anyone could ever see. The part of her that wanted to scream out to the rest of the world through spoken words and written songs. The facade that was her. The one nobody would ever have the concession to know. A soft gust of stale air blew upon her shoulder to remind her how empty her life had become. Broken glass and a shattered heart can break a person apart. But if the person was never truly real at all, what does it all mean?
Shouldn't that happen a lot later?
Like when it actually matters?
Why am i so obsessive about what im going to do with the rest of my pathetic life?
I made a list of things i cant do...
<>write music
<>sing
<>play music
<>write literature
<>write a column
<>any type of journalism
<>anything in the arts
<>anything physically or mentally strenuous
That rules out just about everything but burger flipping
I was so sure i wanted this journalism thing to happen
But...i just cant cut it
Today the sky reminded me of my life.
And i met a drifter.
A CRAZY drifter...
Coincidence?
I hope not.
Im going through identity crisis
Staring into the mirror at herself, she had never felt a sense of gratification. She had never seen the beauty they spoke of. She saw another girl. A girl who shared the same face, but a different essence. One that wanted to tell the world everything she knew, but never found the right words. Washing away her disguise she felt more alive than ever before.
More herself then anyone could ever see. The part of her that wanted to scream out to the rest of the world through spoken words and written songs. The facade that was her. The one nobody would ever have the concession to know. A soft gust of stale air blew upon her shoulder to remind her how empty her life had become. Broken glass and a shattered heart can break a person apart. But if the person was never truly real at all, what does it all mean?
Shouldn't that happen a lot later?
Like when it actually matters?
Why am i so obsessive about what im going to do with the rest of my pathetic life?
I made a list of things i cant do...
<>write music
<>sing
<>play music
<>write literature
<>write a column
<>any type of journalism
<>anything in the arts
<>anything physically or mentally strenuous
That rules out just about everything but burger flipping
I was so sure i wanted this journalism thing to happen
But...i just cant cut it
Today the sky reminded me of my life.
And i met a drifter.
A CRAZY drifter...
Coincidence?
I hope not.