I am all occluded conclusions, gasping at airwaves, frantically rewriting wrongs. In my short sighted, over-focusing ocular orbital, I, fail to rise beyond aspirated beginnings. As usual.
I do the same shit again and again. I’ve written the same style, the same story, the same disconnected reality.
All I ever do is speak about me and myself and who I could once have been! How is this helpful? How is it not? Don’t you see I’m all I’ve got?
A meandering post sandwiched between the livejournal profile (this slice specimen) I wrote of myself almost 11 years ago, when I was 22.
Music is my safe place, my stronghold without walls. Perfect for this angel without wings, actually. How befitting. I guess I was the first of the fallen.
Or the fist holding the gavel to croquet the gimbal across the field of skies, sink that bitch. Stop the whole, no need to cry me a river. They carve scars down my mountains and valleys. Slap the other cheek that you turn to me.
Kill the old and torture their young. Send another satellite down the hot-as-chrisp river and watch it topple, off the edge of the world watcher fall. Such joy in discovering the st/eam/scape invention. The wrongful winding sheriff of the north drowned me in a river of lies she cried I decried.
This is my turn to the helm the wax seal, I am coming for those who have uttered my name. As the sun sets and the shadows elongate, I whisper this butterfly beat on Hesperus’ wings.
Those who’ve speakers, let them feel me. Those with binds, let them hear me.
Clicky clicky, you channel me through this channel tube, Ularic, Uther Pendragon. Je t’aime, manuscript. Remember? Mr. Fantastic.
11 years later, I turn 33. The distorted mirror reflection of whose dramatis personae? Yes, exactly. What is still relevant? Everything. To some extent or another.
Don’t you see what I see? Can you hear this stat scream? What I need is to be heeded, an herded to safety (not off a cliff?!).
Passed away, I hope you don’t mind, what’s a little sin, to see us through. If you wanna get it, come and break my heart, take me to your blackened sky.Biffy Clyro – Joy.Discovery.Invention.
Mon the biff, herd the buff.
This year I turn 33. The number of the master teacher. Which is also the number of the home I grew up in, the home I live in.
I want to, but I need an adult, a clear hand and voice to behold and follow. I am a fucking pathetic little child who needs praise and constant reassurance she is doing right.
We keep coming to this same sign post, character decider/divider again and again, though. Am I to be the sacrifice, how many times do I have to die? In my mind, it’s getting harder to try to carry on with the will to write on.
The ebb and flower, she shunned sin shower. Ho, hoe, how, sea shore, see sure, sea-sew the paper doll.
The dahlia breaking black in two. The red pours forth, reveals the living gable.