So lonely.
If there was a comical little face to animate how I feel, it would be fucking sad.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Come break me in, Sandman.
Having someone to hold, to touch, to just quite frankly have around me, that's all I really need, ever. It's a shame, all this handsome and nothing to back it up. Sometimes I feel like I should cry about it, imagine the false embrace of myself, a pressure to rival an empty cookie jar of disappointment. If they'd come around, I would probably too, but yet one begets another.
why wont Chronos just give me a break? I know what time it is, no need to remind me. Roll on, roll on this little train says Jim James. He also says to break, you man. But, am I one? The person I miss is in the future, and the past, but just not in the mirror.
Sincerity is a past novelty now, who actually wants to heed a good morning? Routine does, that's who, but what a bitch they are. If one was to take the time to reflect the sentiment that is portrayed by empty words, what would happen? I'd fucking cry, for sure. To be sincere and particular... I'd die for it.
But, again, none of this is possible without a ground to stand on, literally. This isn't my ground, my internet, or even my computer. Footholds make all the difference, I suppose, and suppose is all I can do until my shit's together. All of the above is null until I roll my own carpet down.
Ever been so drunk someone else had to carry you? Me neither, but I'm sure it would make the world more tolerable. Plus, it's a false sense of warmth when a girl gets to do it. Oh, silly you, she's only moving you out of the way so she can fuck someone else where you were laying.
Sometimes, I miss being fat. Miss being able to eat like a fatass and shrug it off. Miss being an everlasting source of heat that produces non-stop without fail. Miss being able to throw on any XL shirt from anywhere and look okay. Miss being able to settle with another fat chick. But hey, now the ladies talk to me... even though it's mainly about my damn hair.
Maybe my bedroom IS an accurate representation of my life; Cluttered. Sure I've done more than the average 40 year old, but what do I have to show for it? Nothing. What stories can you tell from them? None.. My minds already fragmented, the future will be grand, especially with the being able to build off past experiences part... NOT.
I need to be better, somehow.
Cloudy skies, be my mask. Be my reason to be depressed. Be my outlet of excuses. By my bane of progress. Just be mine.
why wont Chronos just give me a break? I know what time it is, no need to remind me. Roll on, roll on this little train says Jim James. He also says to break, you man. But, am I one? The person I miss is in the future, and the past, but just not in the mirror.
Sincerity is a past novelty now, who actually wants to heed a good morning? Routine does, that's who, but what a bitch they are. If one was to take the time to reflect the sentiment that is portrayed by empty words, what would happen? I'd fucking cry, for sure. To be sincere and particular... I'd die for it.
But, again, none of this is possible without a ground to stand on, literally. This isn't my ground, my internet, or even my computer. Footholds make all the difference, I suppose, and suppose is all I can do until my shit's together. All of the above is null until I roll my own carpet down.
Ever been so drunk someone else had to carry you? Me neither, but I'm sure it would make the world more tolerable. Plus, it's a false sense of warmth when a girl gets to do it. Oh, silly you, she's only moving you out of the way so she can fuck someone else where you were laying.
Sometimes, I miss being fat. Miss being able to eat like a fatass and shrug it off. Miss being an everlasting source of heat that produces non-stop without fail. Miss being able to throw on any XL shirt from anywhere and look okay. Miss being able to settle with another fat chick. But hey, now the ladies talk to me... even though it's mainly about my damn hair.
Maybe my bedroom IS an accurate representation of my life; Cluttered. Sure I've done more than the average 40 year old, but what do I have to show for it? Nothing. What stories can you tell from them? None.. My minds already fragmented, the future will be grand, especially with the being able to build off past experiences part... NOT.
I need to be better, somehow.
Cloudy skies, be my mask. Be my reason to be depressed. Be my outlet of excuses. By my bane of progress. Just be mine.
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