Shut Up
While you feed the disease
If my old man were still alive, he would pull at my ear until the resilient cartilage would double in size. He'd probably tell me that fighting won't ever get me chicks or some lame joke that would unnerv me, but he'll also say something that would make me loathe him for knowing me so well.
'Your self-destructive tendencies concern me'
With slow, lazy steps I walk the path of the dead, or the path of the soon-to-be dead.
The first fist will probably miss its target, I'm at least that good. The second will probably graze a muscle, make it hurt enough to lose its presistence and the third will surely damage something.
I wonder, are they like that faggot in jail, or do they only wish my death, because, really, what kind of shitty challenge is 'We want you'?
People's brains have lost their upsurge of creativity, it seems...
I round up the corner and see a tiny girl on a bench in the bus station, a tiny dog whose barks would've amused that dead dude to tears. Her black hair is disarrayed and her cheeks glisten in the dull light of the postlamp nearby, which means that I wasn't imagining her cries.
"Hey, little dog"
Her head instantly snaps up and her eyes rummage the air in search of the owner of that sallutation, but it's not him, sorry Em... it just... slipped, involuntarily, through my teeth.
When she sees me, her bottom lip begins trembling and her eyebrows raise with intense sadness.
"You fucking jerk", she croaks before tears begin rolling down her already damp cheeks.
I approach more and stop close enough to see the end of a baseball bat just behind the plastic coverage of the bus station; as I said, dumb...
"Did they hurt you, Denver?"
Even if she could've refused to answer, Emma's head nods once before resuming her bawl, her palms going up to cover her cheeks in embarrasment.( ever since she was a pup, Em's hated crying; she said it was for the weak. Why, then, did you consider Mike strong?)
"It's fucking lame, dudes, come out already, I can see you"
And then I begin loathing myself much more than I would've loathed my father if he figured out my disease.
It's 6. It's fucking 666, I'm going straight to hell after this...
'Your self-destructive tendencies concern me'
With slow, lazy steps I walk the path of the dead, or the path of the soon-to-be dead.
The first fist will probably miss its target, I'm at least that good. The second will probably graze a muscle, make it hurt enough to lose its presistence and the third will surely damage something.
I wonder, are they like that faggot in jail, or do they only wish my death, because, really, what kind of shitty challenge is 'We want you'?
People's brains have lost their upsurge of creativity, it seems...
I round up the corner and see a tiny girl on a bench in the bus station, a tiny dog whose barks would've amused that dead dude to tears. Her black hair is disarrayed and her cheeks glisten in the dull light of the postlamp nearby, which means that I wasn't imagining her cries.
"Hey, little dog"
Her head instantly snaps up and her eyes rummage the air in search of the owner of that sallutation, but it's not him, sorry Em... it just... slipped, involuntarily, through my teeth.
When she sees me, her bottom lip begins trembling and her eyebrows raise with intense sadness.
"You fucking jerk", she croaks before tears begin rolling down her already damp cheeks.
I approach more and stop close enough to see the end of a baseball bat just behind the plastic coverage of the bus station; as I said, dumb...
"Did they hurt you, Denver?"
Even if she could've refused to answer, Emma's head nods once before resuming her bawl, her palms going up to cover her cheeks in embarrasment.( ever since she was a pup, Em's hated crying; she said it was for the weak. Why, then, did you consider Mike strong?)
"It's fucking lame, dudes, come out already, I can see you"
And then I begin loathing myself much more than I would've loathed my father if he figured out my disease.
It's 6. It's fucking 666, I'm going straight to hell after this...
♠ ♠ ♠
Denver=Emma