Trace your fingernail across my palm
Count and connect the lines
Head line, to heart line, to life line
They twist and tie themselves into knots
Don't look at me so sadly,
I don't expect you to untangle them
Still a child and yet I have the lines
Worry lines, laugh lines, frown lines
From afar I still look the young girl
But up close...
See the weariness in my eyes?
Don't look at me so sadly,
I don't expect you to make me happy
My hearts weighted down by fatigue
I'm so exhausted, my soul cries for sleep
Caffeine runs through my veins
Eyes are propped open with a pound of make up
And all I want to do is cry
I'm broken, battered, and bruised
But don't look at me so sadly,
I don't expect you to fix me
At one time I held a book
Rather notable, not my favorite
Having been placed among the latest
On my shelf of broken toys
And in the backroom there's a movie star
Trying had not to be so coy
But I'm certain that this is old news
After all the shit we've been in...
When I ran away to the Misty Mountains
I wanted to build myself a castle
A construction of useless pathos
In a long line of kings
Now I'm just about to take the plunge
And the choice that I'm considering
When I realize it doesn't bother me
Like the world usually tends to do...
I wanted to find a manhole to hide in
Maybe a dryer place to stay
Less of an obvious way
To make myself seem blameless
And I'm gonna jump this ship with style
I am determined, I am shameless
Don't try to hold me back, my friend
I'm going to make my entrance short
Because by the time you read this
I may very well be among the immortal..
And if the spirit moves me, I can sing the blues
Like I'm pouring out my heart to all of you
Less predictable with each wail and cry
I'm craving their applause, but I don't know why
There's a passion in my fingers while I play a pretty song
It feels like it's been ages, but it hasn't been that long
I'm watching as you leave the bar,
And I'm stunned into silence, alone with my guitar...
i made that up on the spot, so don't mind all the angst and crappy metaphors ^^
i'd like to say that this song is for an ex-boyfriend (how cliche, yes?), but in all honesty, this song is for someone whom i thought was a friend, but who has proven me otherwise. lovely, isn't it?
let me know what you think; I CRAVE CRITICISM!!! ^^
(just as a side-note: i tend to write when i'm pissed/depressed/ecstatic, and when i'm pissed, my songs usually end up dripping with sarcasm; some call it a gift, i call it bitchery ^^)
I suppose I should tell you you're lookin okay
But I think that's what you want me to say
You've finally proven all you can be
BUt I wonder: do you still think about me?
Do you lie awake in bed at night,
And wonder if you're livin your life right?
Do the ghosts from your past ever stop by for tea,
Or are you too busy changin the world to see?
Made your mark in life, they knew you by name
Created a cynical kind of fame
All alone at the top, how far can you see?
As soon as there's trouble, come runnin to me...
You made the mistake when you thought I'd agree
Now that you're at the top, I bet that you think
All the pieces are just gonna fall into sync
So afraid you'll loose your place
Fallin outta step with a minimal grace
Social Suicide a la mode
You're a riddle that I just can't decode
Don't miss a step, you just might fall
But not even Napoleon conquered it all
Always bit off more than you could chew
Livin up to the name that they made for you
Shakin lots of hands, finally made it big time
All you need is your killer opening line...
Don't pat yourself on the back, you might break your spine
[REPEAT VERSE 1]
And I wonder how they all remember you
If it's anything like the way I do
Only thing on your mind was to prove what you're worth
Hope you're happy now that you've made your voice heard...
But they all heard the music when I heard the words.
When I wrote this, I was going through an extremely messy and emotion-flooded breakup, and this is one of about 15 poems/songs that came from it. I chose to post this one because it's one of the more docile of my recent poems. ^^
Sorry if the lines are confusing; that's just the way it came out in my notebook, and I think it's pretty spiffy.
To the certain individual who spurred me to write this: you know who you are, and no matter how many times you check your mail, you'll get no sympathy card from me.
I am not afraid of you...
Rather your naievete amuses me
Silly thoughts do humor me so
In days when your immaturity was so obscure.
Were I at liberty to act,
I might remove you from the sequence
and bury your memory at the base of the tree
[Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust]
But only upon liberty to act
Please wait for me there.
This is my skeleton; the skin the flesh the bone
Fully assembled ecto-morph
This is me.
I just want you to live up to the image of you I create
The skin you're in.
I'll leave you to the beauty you prefer
Generic ignorance to defer
Don't forget your key
Don't mind the poetry
Itch beneath the skin, Frame of mind I'm in
at the time;
Don't treat me like something that happened to you...
has a skeleton
and this time
post a reply and tell me what you think ^^
I fret like a Stratocaster
or a Gibson SG.
The Flying V
doesn't touch me
the way Les Paul does.
I have a sort of thing for hyper-talented guitarists (i.e. Jimmy Page).
It was a dark and stormy night.
Many nights are dark, with some darker than others.
This was one of those nights. Where there is no moonshine, no starlight, and all one can hear is the whipping of the wind through the barren tree branches. The animals do not venture out of their burrows on these nights. It is not only the humans that hear the cries. The animals hear and hide. It was one of these particularly dark nights, and not necessarily in the physicality of it. This truly was one of the darkest nights of the year.
He left her house quietly. He avoided the planks he knew to creak. He walked slowly and deliberately, and upon exiting the house he turned fully around in order to watch the door as he closed it. He did not want to let the latch go too soon and risk having it click against the doorframe. He wanted to ease it in, and let it go at exactly the right moment, at exactly the right place.
And then he was gone. He took the cat with him.
She hit him over the head with a wooden chair, and he took a picture of the bruises, and brought them to the police. She was arrested and brought in for the night. Her other bailed her out. The other, Prince Charming, was really a man with no soul, and lots of money. The other was a 54-year-old momma’s-boy. Milked him dry and kicked him out on his ass. Except without the kicking him out on his ass part. He’s still around.
She cried when the police came to take her away. She was in her pajamas and was putting on her sneakers, and she told them she loved them; not the police. He told them later that it was for their own good. He told them that she was crazy. She was crazy. She slammed his fingers in the door and he sobbed louder than one would’ve thought possible. Her words had never made him cry.
Sometimes she cried, on those dark and stormy nights, when she drew the blade across. Let’s call this a metaphorical dark and stormy night. He had taken them out to the movies, and when he came home, the bathroom was littered with red. Down, not across. It was a Sunday afternoon, not a cloud in the sky. He said it was like the Nile River, when Moses turned it blood.
Now the scars look like lightening, the surgery was supposed to make it less noticeable. But it looks like she was struck down, by whom it’s unclear, but the sky reached out and burned both wrists.
I hate the other. I despise the other. I loathe. I hope when he gives himself insulin shots the other lets the air in. It would be the most enlightened, the highest level he will ever achieve, until the other gets an aneurysm and crashes to the floor. Then the other will be physically at the level he dwells on mentally. Six feet under. And the torrential rain will rain on his grave. It was a dark and stormy night.
She will kill herself if he keeps using his diabetes to torture her. She will kill herself. He is gone now, he took the cat, and her wedding ring is coming off, and will not go back on. Note: She is not in tears. But if her life ends because of him
She comes from a long line of insanity. The suicidal women poured from her ancestors like the rain from the clouds. Ka-plunk after ka-plunk. Women drowning in their chemical imbalances. Her mother had shock treatment. Twice. When she sleeps at night, she moans, and her eyes remain half open. One could read into it, and say her mother is really afraid to close her eyes on the world that never forgave her for losing her mind after losing her five-year-old son to cancer. But really, it’s only the face-lift. She can’t close her eyes, even though David is dead. He still died in his daddy’s arms about thirty years ago, and she sobbed at his feet. Perhaps that is the last time her eyes fully closed, and since then, they have only remained half open. She refuses to leave her bed.
He lives alone now, in a basement apartment down the street from her. A prodigy, a genius, he spent his middle school career teaching high school classes. Now he burns CDs all day and refuses to follow his true calling, which is writing. He wrote for the Boston Globe. Now he writes for himself. It is steeped in self-pity writing, grammatically correct and eloquent but lacking in tears. He has a 1,000 CD collection and is registered with an internet dating service, and has been since the divorce. He met a photographer, and she was too short; he met a psychiatrist for a woman’s prison. He said she was funny.
Is it possible that stories are only funny if someone laughs ?
He’s gone now, and he closed the door quietly on the way out, and he took the cat with him. He won’t be noticed for a while. The lightening keeps everyone preoccupied.
I woke you up early that morning
We had gone to bed late, playfully kissing between the steps
on yr stairs after the timed-ticking lights had gone out. The
stairs groaned beneath our weight, but forgave us for taking
advantage of the indiglo-lit dark.
You aren't the first, they creaked.
Yr secret is ours.
Shoulder to hand, back to floor, we fell hard and slow. My view
of the ceiling was eclipsed by yr face, yr eyes wide and
brown. The world was moving too fast, and I was dazed, the dark
a welcome blindfold
on my half-open eyes. Our lips met again, and I
smiled, yr body lay soft on mine.
I just wanted to read with you, a funny play,
a play on words.
I assigned roles, Betty and Bill, and in the midmorning summer sun, we met in a cafe.
I was reading,
you were looking to talk. The play progressed recursively, circling round
the strangers became
They went on a date, a Woody Allen movie marathon, at a theatre
down the street.
We both acted different in daylight; no deus-ex-
machina would fix the last weekend
I ever stepped foot in yr house. We were done.
We found each other once more in the dark,
and I avoided yr gaze in the morning.
This is going out to all who here my call(OMG, IT RHYMED LOLERZ d00d!!).
Anyways, lets head this off. We all know what's going on with Kazaa, it's the same old Napster story except Kazaa isn't consisting of one runner, whereas Napster was, so instead,they're suing users.
Now, I still have Kazaa, but, I'm getting used to using iMesh because, if you don't, you could...like...die man.
So, all Kazaa users are being slowly sued by the government in a stance of scare tactics(I know, damn) and blackmail unseen since...well...since the last time Ted Kennedy was out running over pedestrians while drunk and had to talk his way out of a speeding ticket by telling the cop of the pictures he had of said cop and said cop's homosexual lover raping children. Yes, last night, Ted Kennedy was performing thus such blackmail, because, he's an asshole.
But, enough about Ted Kennedy and HIS blackmail. This is the government and them trying to put their freedom lovers into submission by supporting the MORE EQUAL animals on this farm. Yes my friend, you and I, we are but the equal animals. Musicians are the More Equal animals.
I ask you,are you about to let these pigs(oh, what a metaphor, as these so called "artists" are capatilistic pigs in every way, guzzling back money to afford alcohol that comes priced at $1,000 per bottle) yes, will we let these pigs, destroy our freedom? Are we to live upon our knees licking this aligator skin boots whilst our own plainly clothed feet are left to do not but walk back and forth supporting this money addiction?
I SAY NO!
We must stop these artists in their tracks! These so called "musicians" have billions(maybe just millions) of dollars: they are rich while we are poor! Yet we are expected to pay taxes while they get away with fraud and then we are persecuted for downloading the slime's "music"?
Not only are they rich my friends, this isn't hurting them! These "songs" which we download aren't costing them too much. They still make billions(millions), people still buy their CD's: it's just easier to listen this way. So, they are still rich, but, they are losing perhaps...$200 per year. Which to THEM is a little, whilst to us, that could make the difference of whether we EAT OR NOT! And we're expected to either pay for their $18.95 CD's or to download them for a price which is almost tantamount to the CD?
I SAY NO!
Let us not be brought in by their evil wicked ways. PLEASE, I BEG OF YOU! Most of the music isn't good, and the only musicians protesting are the worst of the bunch(can I say Metallica enough times?). If it is all about the money and not the music, than get OUT of the biz. Even the Grateful Dead let people make bootlegs(I know they didn't "let" them persay, but, they did kinda for publicity). That's what downloads are, publicity. And, if you try to stop them, you are a fool.
If it's all about the money and not the music, then...GET OUT OF THE MUSIC INDUSTRY!
My Plan to stop bad musicians(Metallica):
1.) Download songs off Kazaa. They can't stop us all. If the whole country does this, they can't sue everyone, they'll create a system of paupers who will eventually revolt against the capitalist system which is keeping them down. So, please, download songs. Download hundreds, thousands, or...only download what you please. We are free and as free people, we have just as much a right to enjoy a song when we please as anyone else. The radio doesn't play all the songs we want when we want, so, please, let us have the freedom of our hearing senses. If I want to listen to New York New York or Brat In the Frat or the Daria theme song or anything else for that matter, I feel as a tax paying American I deserve it. As someone who gets up and works and doesn't plot to overthrow their government, I deserve to listen to free music. I buy CD's, I'm just saying, it's nice to have them when I want them, not when I can afford them. So, download as much as you can, I know I will.
2.) Boycott. Please, from November 3rd to December 26th, do NOT purchase a single CD, 8track, Cassette, DVD(yah, it counts), Video, Vinyl, or anything that supports the music industry. I will not be buying people CD's this year, you shouldn't either. If we stop buying CD's, we can actually keep the record industry from...*gasp*...making money! If they don't make money, the little "artists" will lose more money than with downloads. This should either cause their demise or their eventual commonsense, which will make them allow free music downloads. We as a people have already criminalized too much, do we want to include listening to music and gaining enjoyment amongst crimes?
I SAY NO!
We should not make more criminals by creating more laws, we should create more free men by abolishing the superfluous laws.
So, please, if you lose music, be it rock, jazz, bluegrass, country, hip hop, pop, rap, classic rock, flashback, techno, or any other genre, BOYCOTT! We can turn them around, we just have to unite for freedom. Please, UNITE! BOYCOTT ON NOVEMBER THIRD TO DECEMBER TWENTYSIXTH! Buy your family books or chocolate or jewlery, but do NOT support an industry that does NOT support you!
3.) Show this bad review to everyone you know, as we need a boycott!
Thank you for your time! Fight the man who has restrained your freedom. Ayn Rand would even agree with my, for by trying to make you pay, they are trying to make your collectivist group. But if you can be what you want for free, if you can make your own personal mix, than you are an individualist. And, in the end, it all come's down to being who you are, be it by music, political stance, or literary tendancies. Please, boycott. Not for me, but for yourself, and the future of YOUR music!
Johnny Cash would agree. Old Blue Eyes would agree. The King would agree. Do it for those who made it!(Boycott starts the 3rd of November)