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Like Love 11:22 p.m. 2004-09-07 Lyricism repeates in vagaries that make up your cataclysmic cycle of days. This is not our fault and your poetry never made a difference. Vocabularies bloom into scarlet and optical cables rambling across your forehead. I can sound like this and deviation is an internal event elevated by boredom into reinvention and a euphoric sense of solitude. We claim to be alone awash in this isle of post script daydreams but jealousy spurns us all in the mere moment that it took for you to remember that everyone feels exactly the same as you do. Would you color these walls and direct this scarsmear graffiti my way because my coma is my effigy and my insurgence is my insolent reply and a punch in the face may bloody my nose but blood on my face is just a reflection of a smile in your eyes. She said fuck all of this with a grin and a finger in the air. LIke pop punk this is about feeling good so... fuck you and fuck all of this... Tonight under the stars her voice was whispering and the clouds were incandescent and translucency never seemed so alluring before. This is not a turn of phrase and this definitly isn't the time to analyze the content. As a fragmented shard of glass i mean nothing, capable of reflecting your freckles and nothing more but stand back and everything becomes whole and these words could mean everything. Its not a competition its not about who's better this isn't about your eggshell pride splintery and thin. THis is about expression and if you can't look at me and see everything i am then fuck off and read all these words... after all the words were all i wanted to show you anyway. back & forth |