Drafts

You smiled.

"Anne Robinson is such a cunt."

:XD

We are everything wrong with the world.
-
Here where the city lights lie,

My schedule runs like clockwork even though my hands turn anti-clockwise.

I'm not sure whether I like it, so I can't figure out if it can be worked into anything.

This wasn’t lust. But it wasn’t love either. It was product of flushed hearts and failed words. It was a moment a moment in time that could only be comprehended through touch, through pure need for physical contact. Lips on collars and hands in hair. Limbs tangled in scratchy sheets.
I'm not even sure if I like it. :think: Either way, I can't think of anything more or fit it into anything else.

Oh my lord, thank you for this.

I actually thought this was a song lyric that got stuck in my head at first. I want to fit this in a poem or song or something, but I've never been good at forcing any sort of writing. Hopefully something will come along one day it can work with…
Or I could just write a drabble off of it next time I get writer's block. :XD

I'm coming up short inside my head.

His face looked strangely naked under the dim overhead lights, without the wide smile he usually wore or that glint in his deep brown eyes. It was too serene, too plain. It wasn't my Die.

:shifty Turned into this.

I strapped on my boots and headed out.

>_<

It's confidentiality hiding in the seams of your heartstrings. I miss you, I miss you, I really want to kiss you, but I can't. That's not my fucking number, don't call it. Call the real one. Real. I need to be real. Pour it down on me, liquid and crimson and real . Confidentiality. No one respects it anymore. I don't. I live only for myself, as do you. Promises are nothing unless they are broken, and you broke it, you broke not me, it. It. IT. Fucking it. Fucking you. In purple stilleto's and a snakeskin skirt. I remember how along ago that was, do you? I was fourteen. I lost it you to. It. Confidentiality. It doesn't look like a word anymore. It's so hard to write, but easy to say. Maybe that's because my fingers know I'm a hypocrite. They understand me better than my brain does. My heart doesn't understand anything. Shit. Nothing. I am a phoenix, no I'm not. I can't fucking fly. No one can fly. I can see ghosts out of the corner of my eye, then I realize, oh, it's just a shadow. It's not. It's light spectrums shooting in and out of my cornea's, rotating and spinning. Phoenixes. They look like phoenixes. What is a phoenix? It's a bird. Birds fly. Birds don't know anything of confidentiality. All they know is hollow bones and empty sky.

What an extraordinary life it must be.
-
Mindstream. I don't know.

"I can't find your house!"
"Where are you?"
"I'm driving aimlessly around Lookout Dr."
"Well, it should be at the --"
"I think I found it!"
"Elmwood?"

So, short and odd, but it just popped in my head. :file:

Frank imagines by now his heart is all black and blue, or maybe the tell-tale yellow-green of fading pain that still burns like a motherfucker when it's even thought of.

Gerard smiles over the sketchpad that's propped up on his knees and it's like he's taken an low blow to the gut.

Traverse City was a relatively large town in northern Michigan. To most, it was known as the Cherry Captial of the World, but to my family and I, it was home.

Kind of corny, but I really like it. I don't know how to use it, though.

Gerard was Frank’s shooting star. He was a flash of light, a mere moment of hopeful wishes with crossed fingers and faces turned up at the moonlight sky. He was a flash in Frank’s life that would somehow cast a light that would last forever.

She promised you. Shepromised you that if you'd just do her that one little favour she'd make everything go away.

All the hurt, the pain, the anger, the horrible clenching in the pit of your stomach.

All of it.

Too bad she had lied.

Predictable, yes.
Badly written, yes.
But oh well.

My soul's been corrupted, yaknow, by the garbage this society's been turned into. Hunger, are you calling?
-
We speak like lust lives on our tongues.

I was sitting in a field at night time. The moon seemed so close and it was shining a weird . The stars tried to out shine the moon, but they couldn't. This was the moon's night. I began to hear music dancing on the wind as I watched at the moon and stars. The wind tossed around my brown hair around while the music found it's way into my ears. The instrument that was playing was familier. I was nearly positive it was a flute. The music was so pretty. It was free and whimsical just like the wind.

She was spread ,thick as curdled lard, across the stained floor of the frozen veg aisle. Maybe she was resting, her eyes were glazed like rare marbles, over blown pupils, hey maybe she was dead. Check out boys really werent trained for situations like these. Who the hell even was trained for situations like these?. He scrambled blindly for the dull mic stand.

"uh...clean up in aisle twelve?"

gahhh i just can't make it work in anything or turn into a story

"Why should I live? Life is so mundane to me now! The only thing that was entertaining to me was my mad love for a woman that was mad. My purpose has been fulfilled, I’ve found it out, and I’m chasing after her, Good luck”

Something I typed in my notes section when I'm planning out a story.

xD

"You were something I wanted to be.You were something I could never be. And I hated you for that. I hate you for it now."
--
"You've spent your entire life, waiting for a man in shining armor to rescue you from this hell. Well, I got news for you, honey, this isn't hell. Hell is watching your best friend drown themself in a bottle of liquor. Hell is staying up until morning, wondering if they're in a ditch, dead. Hell is...being around you."
--
Just some things I had rolling around the corners of my head, bouncing from one end to another. :)

There was a promise, once. Frank doesn't exactly remember what it was and Gerard never kept it--they simply shared the memory of bonding and promising. But now, when the world is falling apart and Mikey is missing, they're hanging on to that cross of hearts.

--

Frank decided long ago that it would be naive to assume Gerard shared his feelings but it never really stopped him from caring, or sneaking glances and hiding smiles behind the tops of books.

"What in Gods name are you doing?"
"I'm singing."
". . ."
"Paramore"
"What's a paramore?"
"Something my daughter was listening to."
". . ."
"Shut up, I'm a cool dad!" :tehe: