How many ways do I love you? One for the dried blood on my favorite shirt, two for the memory of a better time, three for those shards of glass still in my back, four... four for the 4 nights in Chicago, and five. Five; the only thing I could never forget despite the dull aching trepidation, would be the scars on my heart. That never heal and always hurt.
Fevered writing of manic proportions allowed me to fill a composition notebook in the matter of an hour or two with thoughts; my desires, fears and hopes. And motivations. Evidence of ambition seeps through my fine-woven blanket of cynicism and indifference. I once used the blanket as a security filter, if you will, and now reality slipped through making the metaphorical blanket useless. Pain is pleasure... ocasionally.
I need a cigarette, to put a bullet in the head of trepidation.
Fevered writing of manic proportions allowed me to fill a composition notebook in the matter of an hour or two with thoughts; my desires, fears and hopes. And motivations. Evidence of ambition seeps through my fine-woven blanket of cynicism and indifference. I once used the blanket as a security filter, if you will, and now reality slipped through making the metaphorical blanket useless. Pain is pleasure... ocasionally.
I need a cigarette, to put a bullet in the head of trepidation.
drusylla:
Frank is this guy that I've known for years. He thinks he's a know it all when it comes to certain things like starting a band and SG. And he likes to tell me how I should do things like how I *need* to make more chick friends on SG and how I *need* to start asking people to be my friend etc etc.
