He was Donatello’s David, standing still in the cradle of art, beauty in his every single sculptured line, yet hidden to those who would pass him by, those who would lean on his immortal marble frame, those who would look, though had not the will to see.
This sense of uncertainty had slyly crept through his ivory core, settling in his inert heart. He had not noticed his features deteriorating as time stabbed him, fast; he, once eternally invulnerable, had felt it bleeding thorough his hands, never would the scars heal.
Annihilation was in his each panting breath, so little air, its weight crushing lungs against caging ribs.
He closely examined the soil beneath him, his eyes denied him any motion, their gaze locked into the ground. He could sense it, shaking in its womb, craving to swallow him whole. He would not let it.
He had words.
He arched his neck slowly, painfully; the sun’s rays firing over him, burning in his fierce eyes. He would write his way.
He gripped the ink; he knew it would wash away the blood from his no longer shaking hands; it would cleanse him of the acid rain, insignificant venom of ignorance.
He would spill it over blank pages, reviving them with flawless meaning, summoning them against the impertinent innocence of those proclaiming the inferiority of Mainstream.
He would murder the subtle pretentiousness of those celebrating “alternative” simplicity. He would recount of those silenced by sporadic shrieks of raving anonymity.
He would write his way. Forsaken words of symphony resurrected against alleged originality.
He would tell the tale of Venus; her beauty so blinding, it would disarm those prefabricated metal constructions of bitterness.
He would whisper sinuous melodies and foment oblivious masses against elitist hypocrites, idiots. He would hold them in his hands and softly caress their numbness away. He would speak to them through silence, their limbs convulsively trepidant.
He would never be short of ink, his harmless weapon of destruction, not one would be apt to face his belligerence. He would win.
So he fought his battle, time now fled from his features, terrified by his gentle impetus.
His words had been captivated within their unaware recipients. These had become his harmonious soldiers. As their minds were grazed by his sublime ink no longer would they be deceived by incoherent syllables of those praising incompetence.
The enemy would be swiftly overtaken for it lacked any defense. It had no words, nor could it comprehend the ones of Revolting Mainstream. Those who it had, until then, subjected to ridicule and shame with abbreviated aberration and spiteful crasis, were now evanescent poetry it could not and, would never grasp.
The enemy, who had indulged in undeserved aloofness, was now prostrated, an insolent beggar, defeated by those whose existence it had repudiated.
Diversity would no longer be, Mainstream was now individuality; nevermore rejection or professed superiority, shame or insecurity.
Never again would those passing by not see the David towering high in his magnificence, light reverberating from his sheer stone frame.
A drop of acid rain caught in his motionless curls, as he barely attempted to disclose his ivory lids. His gaze still locked into the ground now shaking sensibly, as an opening had begun feasting upon his left foot.
A mainstream fool
-IT AFFECTS THE SENSE OF BEAUTY-
Figurative arts let the observer decide what a certain painting may entail; musical arts allow the listener to associate sound and emotion; in such a way a manuscript becomes the product of the reader’s interpretation.
The author may write confiding in the quality of his dissertation, nonetheless those words will acquire true beauty and become art upon their contact with the reader: his concentration, his disappointment, his suspense, his laugh, smile, tears, and his rage: true art.
Literature is so engaging for its complexity, its persistent potential to induce doubt, its unique capacity to create images in one’s mind, its flexibility and the way its structure entwines with its object. In great masterpieces the story is also told by how it is written.
Words can be combined in numerous ways; one could ponder endlessly on the meaning of a single term, its position, its rhythm. As an avid reader I enjoy discovering these devices; also in them we appreciate the art of writing. Although an author must, surely, capture the reader’s interest through a gripping story-line, nonetheless it is crucial that he assembles it so that it does not crumble in the reader’s hands.
A building, the perfect image for a literary composition: the foundations and skeleton its form; the rooms and corridors, stairs and elevators, furniture and inhabitants its story-line; finally the windows and outer doors: the eyes and minds of readers, the only ones capable of letting the light shine in.
Literature has been and continues to be the channel through which one delivers thoughts, unravels history, creates fictional worlds, communicates.
-The art of writing: the beauty of the unsaid-
A fascinated fool
Silence
are the words
I do not utter
silent
is the love
that makes me shudder
In silence
I see what there
may not be
silently
I hide
from the thoughts
of thee
In silence
I walk
through memories
I cannot recall
through
raging waves
of what has not been
I swim
Through sleepless
nights
I wander
across the sky
The moon
is shining
bright
the stars
silently watch
over me
as I wish you
goodnight
and goodbye
It has been
one hell of a ride
though a silent one
The silence between us
is never ending
as is this stream
of words
with no meaning.
Darkness interrupted by a shy artificial glow granted a somewhat romantic aura to the loneliness of the unawake streets, indiscernible edifices stood silent in the fog, the majesty of ancient ruins delivered a faded imperial taste to the atmosphere, while trees whispered through a gentle breeze, their frame intermittently defined by the occasional sleepless automobile. A pale shadow erratically ventures through this quite disturbing although magnetic site, limbs stretched out as if to capture its essence. Gliding through hidden passages the shadow’s numerous shapes shift constantly as if chasing one another on the placid brick walls. The winding narrow road came finally to an end, as a stream it poured into the greatness of the plaza, a perfect circumference dotted by pale lamps shining dimly as if speaking in sinuous language to each other afraid of the towering obelisk, rising brave from the ground in the pivot of that immense space, surrounded by the endless sound of shrieking fountains. Running breathlessly up a steep stair the shadow lunges for refuge behind an aged tree, thereupon timidly peeking to discover a rare sight: a bright but soothing light reverberated from the sheer ivory marble pavement of a terrace overlooking the metropolitan surface. The shadow agilely skimps through the bushes craving that mythical scenery: the dawning air was defining shapes and colors, pale reds, ashen grays, and those unmemorable whites, the brick of culture from the imperial time, through renaissance, the modern and contemporary era, ages revealed by such a well assorted variety of urban drama entwined in emerald greens surfacing from historical ground.The shadow indulges in that perfection craving its embrace, oblivious to the rising sun; inexorably it disappears in a breathless gaze.
My hands are no longer sore from words I have not written, it is the thoughts I try not to have which keep screeching through my mind, and struggling to make their way out some time or another. I cannot speak of the unspoken love I no longer feel. I mustn’t utter the words I long to utter. I do not know what there is to know, I just would like to free myself from his grip and fly away to where he cannot reach, not me, because here where he could, he doesn’t. It’s time to wake-up and separate feelings, but I have no reason, I need to break down, I need more answers that never will I have, not from him. I bow tonight and take in my faults and flaws, naked, from a screen I bow and tap my way through this unconscious collided stream of tangents and words that have not much meaning if not maybe to me.
I need words I cannot find as I race through thoughts I cannot describe. My mind is still, concentrated on the task at hand; I read it over and over again and continue.
On and on I go, forever I will in this stream of mine as the beats drill my eardrums. How can I get somebody to listen if they are unwilling to? There is no way I can turn back time and do things differently, because even if I could I WOULD NOT. Now all that was done has gone to waste, and me, I’ve gone along with it; I cannot seem to find my way out, even though I covet the times which have come to pass more than you know, as hurtful as they might have been. Pain brings clarity, one learns from it, what I have learned I still cannot say, but someday I will, in the meantime I will wait and ponder in doubt, thinking you might have been worth it, though probably you weren’t.
FOLLIA LUNARE
PAIN AND RAGE
Someone learn
many don’t
spreading filth
is all you’ve done
now you are alone with
your thoughts
as the rain
comes crying down
from the sky
Typical
logical
though not so
I flew by
your empty apartment
called out
but never did you show
I just wanted to say
goodbye
my city has made me crazy
there’s not much left to do
after all the things I put you
through
I give up
no more fooling around
I’m just getting the hell out
I liked having hurt
cause all the pain
I sent it below
where I wanted it
I took care of everything
you did nothing
and suffocated
flooded
in my thoughts
I ran you away
then came running after you
now I’ve let you go
I don’t feel anything
anymore
so I sent the pain below
where it belongs
because
I do not let it surface
never
Rage is all you will see
of me.
So it is, the difference between PAIN and RAGE, a fine line swirling through entwining tangents. Sometimes we use one to disguise the other, to breathe and let go of the one or the other. Not always can we distinguish where one ends and the other commences; it is the lies we speak so comfortably, the ones we tell ourselves so to not deal with reality, that wrong us in a way we try not to display. What is there to display, if not what we think is the best image of ourselves we have to show, of what we seem to know but really don’t. I stagger in the dark along the track of the stars, walking towards the moon; tonight I do not see her because the clouds have impaired my sight, fog is shuffling my thoughts of rage, no pain yet because it’s buried down below where it hurts best, away from the surface of me, around your alley and into my valley. In my womb I hold the pain, red and vigorous; from my hand I spit venomous words at the nothingness you are, because with so little you hurt me so much. Now all that is left is rage towards my foolishness, no longer will I endure your lack of anything worth something, this show is over, and I drove it as fast as I could. There’s nothing in the back of my head saying it could have been, because it is not and never will be. YOU ARE NOW NOTHING TO ME. The rage has freed me of some pain, so now I can go and not keep it a secret.
Soph in photographer mode, about 5 months and 8000 pics away... I revel in the thought of what I was. Propositions glide through my head as the numbness clears away. Tomorrow, a new beginning, so to return to where I was in a near future I cannot predict, but I can build one piece at a time. "Hang on" by placebo just picked up, and I smile. I smile at you that half-smile you see, a plan is beginning to unravel in my head. Things will be okay. I know they will, they always do in the end. Enough. Goodnight.
¶ 9:40 AM 0 comments
MANI VAGANTI
Il tuo silenzio
mi ha fatto viaggiare
tra un universo
ed un altro
in un buco nero
di parole
folli
e messaggi
di speranza
Il mio silenzio
ti ha portato
dove la paura
fa più male
nella verità
di un amore
che vorresti provare
I tuoi occhi
hanno acceso
il mio lampo
in dieci scatti
Il mio sguardo
ha trovato
quello perfetto
con un sorriso
La tua struttura
mi ha paralizzato
quando sentivo
di andare
al massimo
Le tue mani
mi hanno toccato
quando non l’hanno fatto
Il tuo punto debole
è il mio
ll silenzio
quando penso
per capire ciò
che non capisco
Ho appena capito
dopo aver perduto il primo
che tu sei l’ultimo
Il mio infinito
e tuono
la mia musica
e suono
la tua voce
e vibro
dove mi raggiungi sempre
perché per te
non è mai spento
il fuoco
che mi accendi
soltanto se ti penso
Sei il mio poeta
del silenzio
e la mia parola
finale
IMMENSO_
This is the song for tonight, with no pics of a smiling moon ( the uploading isn't working properly), although I smile with her at you now that I am home and I can, you insignificant prick. Fuel is all I have left for you. Angry lyrics from a great song you probably don’t even know. You have not left anything bleeding in my hands if not buts of cigarettes I try not to smoke. Now I will go and have another with this song and think of you, smile at the stars and the moon, they surely understand me more than you.
A song to my angels tonight because soon I will see them. This one was written just after I said goodbye to them thinking I would not be able to see them again before the summer. Bare with me, the length is way over normal standards...
MULTICOLOR SNAPSHOTS
Not coming home
in true words
I trust God
therefore I WRITE
to discover
Non-SENSE
AND SENSE
A BLACK
WHOLE
PINDARIC FLIGHT
through one universe
and another
Because I feel each beat of this song
in MY APPENDIX
AND IN MY HEART
NO LONGER AM I
ALONE
@ HOME
BECAUSE ALL OF THE WEB
IS WITH ME
ADAM LEVINE
IS LEAVING
AND STARTING OVER AGAIN
WITH THIS NON-SUNDAY
MORNING
SO I’LL SHUFFLE
REPEAT THE BEAT
IN SEARCH OF MY BASS
home sweet home
BASE
STRIKE-OUT
Now RANDOM-IN
MY EMOTIONAL DROUGHT
NO DRUMS
ONLY HIS VOICE
IS ALL I NEED TO HEAR
TO STAND UP
AND SHOUT
ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE
BECAUSE TIME
DOES NOT BURN OUT
IT MAY FADE
PAUSE
AND STOP
BUT I RESET
FORWARD FAST
TO...
A CHEEWING Gum
week-end
in London
with the Charlies
and the Browns
CAUSE THAT’S WHAT I CHEW
WHEN I DON’T HAVE A CIG
IN MY MOUTH
And if the lights
should go out
I set my COOLPIX
NIKON
ON AUTO
and with her self timer
SHE FLASHES ME OUT
but not on BEST SHOT SELECTOR
No FLASH
just 10 snaps
to steal away the best we have
with my MP3
and my MEMORIES...
Only the ones
that make me smile
I don’t forget
But it’s the ones
that make me sad
That I want to remember
FOREVER
MY MISTAKES
I CAN RECOVER
AND WITH THESE VERSES
I WANT TO KILL CANCER
ANGER
WAR
GUNS
SHOUTS
And breathe in
tearful
eternal
silence
and QUIET
DID I ?
My midnight Show
is saying again
I’m driving too fast
for the slow in thought
but not in MIND
well
I’m from Rome
the 1st EMPIRE
and 2nd INSANE TRAFFIC
after Naples
and New York
LA and Bjork
So all of Ice Land
Green Land
and the SOUTH POLE
TURN ON YOUR HEATERS
CAUSE I’M GETTING COLD
NO SECRET
BELIEVE IT
With my one lonely visitor
who only knocks
quietly at night
thinking I don’t see
because I might not breathe
but when he does so
I TAKE THE MOST ENORMOUS
BEAUTIFUL
BREATHS
OF OPEN MOUNTAIN
HIGH AIR
I’VE EVER FOUND
AND INCENT IT
WITH SOME VANILLA
AND NO SMOKE
But too much sweet melody
hurts my tooth
so I’ll go ahead and shuffle this tune
And my panic begins
because I know
you are No bastard inside
only via-sms
your favorite way
to communicate
when I hurt you
and hit you
MY OWN WAY
No more panic now
not for so long
because you read me
after my first symbol
you did
the instant you saw me
and found me out
so too many messages
I have written
I know, now
back to red and out of this
coldplay.
Forfeit
does not shake me
any more
I just smile
when I see it
and think up
beautiful
wicked
slich-sick
SANE
WORDS.
FF it
A peer from them again
I am trying to be
because
the best compliment
I’d like to receive and never
have
is
you are UNIQUE
BUT NOT IN FRENCH
YOU CAN
USE any other language
symbol, number
letter
whatever
because I believe
that our little FRENCH COUSINS
are the most stuck-up
NOSE
snobbish lot
I have ever seen
or heard
but not written
because
in Lumiere’s brothers
I saw Pascal, Montesquieu
Pennac, and all the others
ART HAS ONLY ONE LANGUAGE
è BEAUTY
LOGIK HAS Infinite symbols
to explain it I must learn them all
to teach them within this milleneum
because I am not tangled
just foolishly in love
Of course a PS is due
to SWITCHFOOT
because with them I learned
I MUST DARE TO MOVE
so even though I’m not listening
to their sound
I’ll just say my last crazy song
was ON FIRE & TO MY LUNG
right lung,
mine, not yours
even though you can stand by me
on whichever side you like
Because if, and whenever you do
I’ll check the wind
the temperature
and the air
to see where to throw
my last dying
hair piece_
I drag myself from one window to the next tonight, the ones I see here on my screen, only because I cannot be outside looking at the ones I'd like to be, seeing my reflection reflecting the shape of me with stuff I cannot buy. So just some pics from when I was able to, a while ago, before you, before the tangents and all this nonsense.
Time is up and down right now, so I’ll try to explain what tangent I’m on, because as I scroll trough my words I see no sense in them, no collision or curve no direction, and it must be hard for anyone to try and get where I’m headed to. I’m not quite sure of the destination, but of one thing I am sure and it’s the recipient of all my words, he knows exactly who he is, and knows me personally even if only just a bit. We met this summer and had a brief fling, three days, that’s all, and he did not go through all the way, as I wished he did. I never had in my life a one night-stand and don’t think I ever will after this, but you never know, everything seemed so right until he just held me tight and decided, when I was half naked, that it was best to just hold me and fall asleep, under the moon, over the rocks with the melodious Mediterranean whooshing up and down. Now I have no grudge but the thing got kind of tangled and I went crazy in between, not because of him, but he got caught up in the mix, so now, that I’m almost sane he’s trying to get out of stuff by playing the part of the one who just wanted some quick sex... Hmm IF IT IS SO, THEN WHY THE HELL DIDIN’T YOU TAKE IT WHEN YOU HAD THE CHANCE DUMBASS???
Anyway, it no longer matters, all I wanted to say, is that here I mostly write to him, especially when I write in Italian. That’s all, no more explaining. This is the song for him today ON TOP, by the killers, rewritten my way and in Italian.
Cheers
ON TOP
Dimentica Rio
e finiscila di muoverti
come un orso
anche se vieni dalle Montagne
non è così che si balla
Dovevo capirlo
quando hai provato
a dirigermi tu
che non eri capace
volevi soltanto che ti seguissi
per poi addormentarti
Il mio sole
è un altro
ed IO BALLO MEGLIO
DA SOLA
perché non c’è nessuno
che mi sappia portare
quando oscillo
e mi faccio
trasportare
dalla voce
di Flowers
e dei Killers
L’alba mi ha svegliata
ma era già tardi
per capire
che non c’era più niente
da fare
non con te che non sai
neanche ballare
tanto ti nascondi dietro
un sorriso
ed una stretta di mano
due serate
e quattro chiacchiere
troppi baci
ma tutti invano_
Prose is what I need tonight, some sensible words of wisdom from someone that is not me, or someone I’m trying to be, before I leave and fly away again and ignore the pictures I have of him, because he’s played me once again and no longer resides in my dreams, only in my day-light thoughts when I have nothing better to do. The scattered moments in which I think of him are all the more less and sporadic as they used to be, no more trying where there is no room, no space to try. There is no screw to drive, no car to gear, no dust to shove. No memory to remind me of what has not ever happened, because I do not know that it was him when I thought I did. I have spoken many words to the right people, especially one, a stranger that knows exactly what is happening inside of me, though I let him in only momentarily, I just had a smoke outside and I am tapping on the keys as lightly as can as the music drives me, I’m feeling a bit drunken from the smoke I inhaled, that means I cannot have too much, which means I am also smoking less, I guess... I’m a bit confused tonight, I’d like a sip of wine, dark and red from Montalcino, yes, but I can’t, not while I’m tripping on smoke and clouds, and words, eternal, magnificent words that just flow on their own. So now I better ride this powder-down-hill thought without my board, with no snow, with no head but with all my soul, I’m in green-land, alone, surrounded by white beautiful nothingness, numb from the cold, mp3 in my ears and absolutely not even an inch of another human being within miles and miles of fresh air to breathe and inhale. My ode to the moon, goodnight.
Piene le mie mani
di un diamante
ti scrivono
Mute le mie mani
del tuo silenzio
non chiamano
Sorde le mie mani
la tua musica
cercano
Affamate le mie mani
di cibo
che non mangiano
Mani senza profumo
le mie, adesso.
Le cicatrici stanno
svanendo
solo aloni rosa
di un fiore spento
restano
Hai sfiorato le mie mani
con le tue
silenziose e sinuose
ogni unghia
un diamante.
Te le rendo
con le loro mille facce
per specchiarti
nell’acqua di Narciso
il cui suono
segna la tua alba
ed il tuo tramonto
le tue stelle
e la tua luna
i pianeti
e l’universo
dove perso
vaghi
in silenzio
Non arrestare questa
folle corsa
di pensieri
pensando
non parli
e se lo fai
stai in silenzio
Parla con te stesso
guardando le tue
splendide mani
che ho colmato
di parole
forse vuote
forse insane
Soltanto parole
di questo sono piene
le tue mani_
A broken fool ¶ 5:01 AM 0 comments
my head is swamped
full of thoughts
I cannot distinguish
My ears are thumping music
not to hear the tips
and taps
from the keys
I’m tapping on
I cannot discern
I cannot ponder
I do not see
I cannot feel
I cannot be
not tonight
I’m on fire
from the mysteries
I cannot solve
I have little hope
I have no trust
not in me
not in you
not in the melody
I have only faith in words
I cannot utter
because you do not want to hear me
You do not want to see me
you cannot read me
therefore I write
in a language you do not speak
finally I write
after so long
I was incapable
to do so.
I write
GOODNIGHT
So long
GOODBYE
I gave you all
I had to give
I spilled my soul
I dried your lips
your thrift
words have killed me once again
And I rebirth tonight
with a new soul
it will be a long
journey
the one I take
on my own
ALONE
without you
because if I write poetry
I do so without
thought
this is my first
and last of the day
for me
not for you
You are no longer
ON FIRE
for me
I am standing on the edge
of what I’d like to be
tonight I do so
casually
You told me not to be
I am
you no longer are
not for me_
¶ 8:07 AM 4 comments
He lived in Googleville, had grown in MSNtown, vacationed in Yahoo City, hung with his friends at the Amazon bar, where they drank downloaded cocktails and chatted through ICQ.
He rented a virtual studio, bought virtual furniture, slept in a virtual bed; he ate virtual food he had bought virtually.
He enjoyed long virtual walks, he played any virtual sport, he read virtual books, listened to virtual music; he had a virtual job.
He was virtually handsome: bright LCD eyes, deep digital voice, a body one could scan for. His virtual qualities did increase his virtual success with virtual women, his latest virtual girlfriend a certain Lara Croft, a virtual archeologist of some sort.
His days were planned in binary code, he spoke HTML, he wore a different template each day, all of them stored alphabetically in his HD.
So he led his virtual life, time defined by the clicking beat of his pet mouse.
One day he leaned over a window he had never seen on his screen…
- Error: your connection has been terminated -
A virtual fool ¶ 5:01 AM 1 comments
Un flusso di coscienza per il mio dottore perché sono in preda al furore dell’indecisione, mio altro ennesimo problema. Ho la mia canzone nei timpani al massimo volume, quindi scrivo quello che le mani vogliono seguendo le parole di una voce inglese che ripete nel ritornello “Ci vuole uno scemo per non essere folle in questo mondo ricoperto di vergogna”.
Apro quindi il mio sipario, mentre fanno ingresso le parole e faccio scivolare l’inchiostro contro un muro di incoerenza, questa è la mia INCOSCIENZA.
Due anni di depressione dopo il primo amore, 6 giorni di follia e mesi di euforia per una serie di cause non ben identificate. Un romanzo che non sto scrivendo, perché nessuno lo vuole leggere e ora non so cosa farmene.
Il basso sta ripartendo e le parole di nuovo ancora e con un bacio dice “ricambierò la sua noia per la mia gioia”. È suo diritto ridere di me, ma al contrario è il mio turno per sentirmi coraggiosa, impavida. HO PAURA di ricadere nella massa, di accumulare altri chili di noia, perché preferisco essere un po’ matterella e strana che non piatta nella testa.
Fai quello che il cuore comanda
ed il mio dice
“SCRIVI
E VINCI CONTRO IL CANCRO
NON FUMARE
DATTI DA FARE
MUOVITI
IN QUESTO MONDO
RICOPERTO DI NEFANDEZZE "
sono queste le mie uniche certezze.
italian fool
¶ 5:17 AM 4 comments
I look forward to the trip; anyone who would like to meet not me, just someone you cannot see, Please e-mail me or don’t. You can leave a comment or a post-it colorful note.
I am still on my not so sane brain-traveling-train, to where I cannot show, how Pindaric flights, stop over in NEWARK, jersey and then start up to go back home. Hey Jamie I’ll give u a holler while I’m in the port, continental bunker 401. On a 676, maybe a 677 from Rome, jet and around half of this planet, I will see some of Green-land, Quebec, Canada and almost all of the states, if I don’t fall asleep against the double-plate minis, because I have not an aisle seat.
I am afraid of seeming insane, but I do not want to be completely sane; as I am not completely foolish nor a fool with a multicolor jacket. I must do, without thinking twice, do what I have to do. I cannot yet find what it is that I must do.
WITH A KISS I WILL CHANGE BOREDOM INTO ENTERTAINMENT. That is what I do, I entertain in a foolish way men, and then I pay the price of seeming an insane childish girl who cannot commit to anything, if not writing words as music streams through her ears.
I wrote the ending of my book in reverse using 5 different personalities and in psych-ville they let me go, thinking I might be bi-polar, and that I had an episode of plural-personalities. I agree with the second diagnosis, not the first. I am one person now, and I write as one for none. It’s quite boring; I like to steal away the attention towards me, but in an indirect way, only if the reader pleases, not because I tell him/her to do so. So I see that now I’m not getting much attention because I’m not writing my book any more, just some sensed words that have no destination in particular. I regret now having deleted nonsense, but regret is for losers so maybe I will work on this collision course in a different way, hoping that it helps me and entertains anybody who stumbles upon it by chance, not by holler.
Did I change your bore for my bliss?
I feel blessed now, and I’m not asking for your gratitude, you can laugh at me or with me, whichever you prefer, I laugh nonetheless.
Over and out
Oh in this world covered up in shame
BY THE ARK
Bunrn away words, that flow, through my head and onto this un-numbered page, because I have no direction if not during a two-point turn with my rear-gear shifted on #1. Please come in and let me know how far I can go , so to know and not let go of the break and hear the crash against that smart-ass face of a car from Switzerland and Germany Mercedes Benz, the dumbest car I have ever seen; the most stupid thing I have ever written, because I hate my current state of emotion, which I cannot control, because the pills are taking that toll and billing onto my brain a receipt to cache'.
I need some chevelle. Breach Birth is today the song I will sing along on my sense-collision pad; because I lost all sense and anger crept in. I threw it in the face of one person I should never blame. Sorry you'll never know I said so, even though I told you, but it does not matter anyway. ¶ 10:59 AM 0 comments
PS
The elixir cigarettes are menthols, ok, but not much without the new rechargeable yellow non-fire-exstinguisher.
¶ 3:02 AM 0 comments
