consequences

my head feels like a fantasy.
the lines between right and wrong are blurred delicately round the edges.
my actions have a time delay.

landscapes blur and move slower than i do.

maybe this wasn't the best decision i ever made.

consistantly inconsistant

peaceandfuckinglovekids

sorry, baby, but that just ain't my scene

sometimes i think my life is such an intricate tangle of lies, even i'm beginning to forget who i am.
i lose myself in words that i can't even remember uttering.
a vicious cycle. a simple problem.

i heard about a new club opening in the big newyorknewyork. angels and kings i think it's called.
hopefully it'll play something worth listening to.
music that gets your heart racing until you've lost yourself in a blur of has-beens and maybes. there's not enough places like that.
i want a song i can lose my mind to.
dancing amongst people with heavy pockets and empty souls.
everything revolves round silver and gold.

"this town ain't big enough for the two of us" they said

the news is overflowing with tragedies. papers frantic for whichever headline is worse.
surely the world is peppered with some, dare i say it, good news as well.
something worth celebrating must be happening to someone somewhere.

let's hear about that too.

there doesn't just have to be mourning at a funeral.

i wish i was a star trek nerd

my face is made up, yours is an autobiography.
two hours sleep last night. that was an improvement on all of last week.

i want to decorate my skin.
maybe if i can force the outside into something beautiful, the inside will follow.

have you ever idolised someone?
put them on that solid gold pedestal and held them up so everyone could see who you wanted to grow up to be?
i haven't. i wish i would.

sometimes i feel like i'm running through a forest with my eyes shut.
i can feel the freedom, and the ground under my feet, but one day i'm going to run smack into a tree.
and it'll hurt like a bitch.

so far i've only hit branches.

live long and prosper, kids.

this is your encore

la la la.
i love the feeling of the tip of my tongue against the roof of my mouth... i love feeling the tip of your tongue against the roof of my mouth more.

have you ever met someone that means more to you that you mean to yourself?
someone that you'd jump off the ends of the earth for... but that you know in your heart of hearts would never do the same for you?

it's moments like this that make my head a little crazy.

livethefuckinglegend.

dance between the raindrops in a downpour

sit with me under the sta(i)r(e)s looking up at the stars.
annotate these immitations.

today is a good day.
not quite any bird/love song, but close enough to breathe it in.

people who say sunshine brings happiness have obviously never danced in the rain.

dance with me?

i'm writing you a list of all the things you weren't

"now hold onto me pretty baby."
i should be out dancing along to stories of other peoples youth... but i tripped over my own stupidity, and hit the ground too fast for me to blink.
ouch.
dancing isn't limp friendly.
so here i am. spilling out my head to the keyboard and absorbing the rhythm of other peoples guitars over my speakers.
the fun just never stops.
or maybe it never started.

my floor is littered with extracts of my thoughts.
pages ripped from notebooks that i couldn't understand, but i don't have the heart to throw away.
sentimentality will be my downfall, when i realise i can't let go.
especially the whispers and photos.

these diary entries are filled with nothing but incoherant mumblings of a trainwreck.
maybe one day someone will understand how my mind works.
i pity them.

i'd never want to get that close to myself.

there's something about...

it's morning. actually, it's felt like morning all night.
i love sleep - it just doesn't love me back.
close your eyes and hope for the best.
but my head won't shut off. i can't shut down.

i isolate myself. and the more i do it, the more isolated i feel. until it's just me and my head.
if that makes sense, you're a goddamned genius.
i don't understand myself.

i don't dare let any one get close enough to know me.
because then they can judge me. or worry about me.
or pressurize me.
because God knows that i'm so pressured my head is threatening to implode with every new thought and word.
with every recent sigh and smile and laugh.
i can see the release, i just can't feel it.
being down is my comfort blanket.
it's a way for me to know that i'm safe in my own head.
maybe. maybe not.
maybe that's the warzone that I've been trying to avoid.

misery has never been so pretty, baby boy.

switchoffshutdownletgo

lights blind as the city sleeps

is it strange how everything inspires me, and at the same time, i'm never inspired.
or inspirational.
i want to be needed. to been seen by someone other than my reflection.
i avoid the mirror in the fear that i won't recognise myself.
i can't stop the typewriter in my head clicking with every word i've never said.
then i scratch them into napkins and skin, incase they fade.

i don't care about crowds screaming a name i don't recognise as my own, i just want people to realise i'm alive.
i want to make a difference to someone's mind.

i get behind the wheel and i can't shake the feeling that people in car crashes have burnt to ashes, leather fusing to fingertips.
then i realise none of this makes sense.
so i'll slur "i love you"s to myself, because i don't have anyone else.
i'm obsessed with love, yet phobic of obsession.
so am i terrified of emotion?

i joke with my head that i've fallen behind with life.
i just need to find the passion, the spark between my hips and relationships.
i want to run through the tide and let it soak up my ambition.

and then get the hell out of this town.

admissions of submission

and i'm once again back to spilling words onto a page.
i need something physical to remind me i'm real.
today has to be the first of the rest of my life.
dreams and hopes revealed.
to me.
to you.
to them eventually.

sometimes i sing the lyrics in my head out loud. they never make sense.
then i try and write them down, but they never sound the same on the page.
the paper twists them. the ink stains.
i'd start a band, but i'm not talented enough to accept that i could be talented enough.

the skeletons in my closet were formed by words, and now they're kicking and screaming trying to break down the barriers i built between me and the world.
but it's a comfort to know i'm safe in my own head.
being the procrastinating underacheiver that i can't help but embrace.

this face doesn't fit me anymore... it's got to change.

or does it?