Simple.
simple.
How do I even begin to convey what I can’t start to explain to myself? It’s lost somewhere in the music I listen to and the films I watch. It’s stuck between the pages of books and in the crumbs of food I’ve eaten. I don’t even know where I start, begin, end, continue, and dance across the yellow lines of the highway anymore.
Somewhere stuck inside of me is a writer that’s become a skeleton clutching to an invisible pen and looking somewhere for something to fucking say something. Where did all the fucking ink go and where is my fucking inspiration? I have words and no characters, no plots, no boys bent over couches while other boys tear into them with the ferocity of a tiger fighting for it’s last meal. We will collapse in a sticky sweaty pile afterward and make funny faces that never make it into the story.
What the fuck is reality anymore anyway and why couldn’t Wendy stay with Peter and Alice in Wonderland? Stupid girls and stupid reality sucking us back in. What is the moral of the story? That this is as good as it gets and don’t you dare try to fucking escape. Don’t follow the exit signs. If we can’t keep our hands on your wrists, you might realize that there’s more and you might follow your heart.
Hearts are for stomping on and the zombies will eat them when the time comes. Grab your gun and your knife. Pray if you believe and have sex in case you won’t again. Now would be the time to quit smoking. Last cup of a coffee and a glance at the morning paper. Remember when the world was simple?
What is simple and don’t laugh because you know nothing was ever fucking simple. You just thought it was simple because you were young/simple/naïve/innocent/beautiful? You’ll figure it out one day when you’re looking back at VHS tapes of your life with Disney previews at the beginning. If only life could be animated in such pretty colors.
Soundtracks will never happen in sync with my footsteps. Listening to beats and lyrics and harmonies and guitars and drums and boys with broken hearts singing to girls with broken dreams. Who isn’t broken anymore and when did we begin to be made from glass? How did things get so delicate and sad and lost? The woodwork is just the forest and it’s crept into your backyard to arrest you for your crimes against nature.
Don’t forget that everything you pretend doesn’t exist will and can and always has deep inside the crevices of your brain. Reality is only a perception and a state of mind. You can reach deep into the trunk of a tree and pull out a beating heart, stare into it and see the eyes of the mother of the universe staring back at you. But you won’t.
Simple.
Somewhere stuck inside of me is a writer that’s become a skeleton clutching to an invisible pen and looking somewhere for something to fucking say something. Where did all the fucking ink go and where is my fucking inspiration? I have words and no characters, no plots, no boys bent over couches while other boys tear into them with the ferocity of a tiger fighting for it’s last meal. We will collapse in a sticky sweaty pile afterward and make funny faces that never make it into the story.
What the fuck is reality anymore anyway and why couldn’t Wendy stay with Peter and Alice in Wonderland? Stupid girls and stupid reality sucking us back in. What is the moral of the story? That this is as good as it gets and don’t you dare try to fucking escape. Don’t follow the exit signs. If we can’t keep our hands on your wrists, you might realize that there’s more and you might follow your heart.
Hearts are for stomping on and the zombies will eat them when the time comes. Grab your gun and your knife. Pray if you believe and have sex in case you won’t again. Now would be the time to quit smoking. Last cup of a coffee and a glance at the morning paper. Remember when the world was simple?
What is simple and don’t laugh because you know nothing was ever fucking simple. You just thought it was simple because you were young/simple/naïve/innocent/beautiful? You’ll figure it out one day when you’re looking back at VHS tapes of your life with Disney previews at the beginning. If only life could be animated in such pretty colors.
Soundtracks will never happen in sync with my footsteps. Listening to beats and lyrics and harmonies and guitars and drums and boys with broken hearts singing to girls with broken dreams. Who isn’t broken anymore and when did we begin to be made from glass? How did things get so delicate and sad and lost? The woodwork is just the forest and it’s crept into your backyard to arrest you for your crimes against nature.
Don’t forget that everything you pretend doesn’t exist will and can and always has deep inside the crevices of your brain. Reality is only a perception and a state of mind. You can reach deep into the trunk of a tree and pull out a beating heart, stare into it and see the eyes of the mother of the universe staring back at you. But you won’t.
Simple.