Okay...so I think I wrote a song (songs?). Or song-ish thing. It sounds like it could be a song, but I've never done it before, so don't judge me too harshly. And don't steal, yo.
Straight from my journal, no editing, raw and untouched (the themes/topics change unexpectedly, I know, so I'll separate the pieces into paragraphs so the theme-changes aren't too abrupt):
You're impregnated with nicotine and it's bursting to be borne from you on smokey wings to carry you to where you want to be. You've been here before and put yourself here again unafraid. Secretly waiting for something to change. Even though you know it never will. You've locked yourself in with the key and self-harm, playing the blame game autonomously. It's your curse, you'll never escape what you put yourself through, but that's okay with you. Masochism is your niche, even if it gives you nothing in return. You play your oxymoron expertly, a soloist among the ensemble. But the tempo never changes because you're afraid of change, you hide from it, like a child, under your bed, secure from it all. You know it'll find you, waiting, where you've caged yourself. As long as you have something to complain about. But the monsters that chase you come from you, escape from you, surround you, become you. It's not the same as a needle to a vein, even though you glamorize it so, so you can feel better, think you feel better, really feel better about what you do.
The image of our love is fucked up. You're with her and love her deeply and differently and you love me, too, and I love you and she's wonderful. But I would do anything for you, and so would she, and it's all a perfect triangle of something I can't fathom, but I'm addicted to it so powerfully I'll probably never break free.
Scream to me your insides so I can know them loud and clear, raw and dark like the inside of your mouth, the cave of your emotions, my comfort zone between your lips so alive. Your voice is cloud nine, my home, a separate peace from this dark drive down cop-covered country roads. While it soothes we soar with music and laughter and love; Mount Doom love. Let's throw the ring in together so we never have to see the end of this codependency. We'll be the same together while we share our differences to become alike. So sing a duet with my to a song I know the words to for once; you can't be the soloist forever, and I want to share you with the radio (it's a selfish little whore for you).
And then I have some insertion from my father. He was all proud that he thought of a really good metaphor for being uber-depressed. His metaphor was "down the drain with razor blades," which is actually a good band name for a really emo band. We'll get that printed on a hoodie ASAFP.
More sort-of-songage:
Keep me here forever, under your wings to watch your every move, your guard, a sentinel for your love [I feel like I've heard that before, so I might have been stealing]. But I won't kidnap you, lock you in my tower to let your hair down into my fingers, so much thread unraveled into me. You belong to her and I belong to myself, scared to feel something different but wanting it all the same.
So yeah. Be gentle if you have criticisms. I never write lyrics or poetry. I'm a prose person.
Straight from my journal, no editing, raw and untouched (the themes/topics change unexpectedly, I know, so I'll separate the pieces into paragraphs so the theme-changes aren't too abrupt):
You're impregnated with nicotine and it's bursting to be borne from you on smokey wings to carry you to where you want to be. You've been here before and put yourself here again unafraid. Secretly waiting for something to change. Even though you know it never will. You've locked yourself in with the key and self-harm, playing the blame game autonomously. It's your curse, you'll never escape what you put yourself through, but that's okay with you. Masochism is your niche, even if it gives you nothing in return. You play your oxymoron expertly, a soloist among the ensemble. But the tempo never changes because you're afraid of change, you hide from it, like a child, under your bed, secure from it all. You know it'll find you, waiting, where you've caged yourself. As long as you have something to complain about. But the monsters that chase you come from you, escape from you, surround you, become you. It's not the same as a needle to a vein, even though you glamorize it so, so you can feel better, think you feel better, really feel better about what you do.
The image of our love is fucked up. You're with her and love her deeply and differently and you love me, too, and I love you and she's wonderful. But I would do anything for you, and so would she, and it's all a perfect triangle of something I can't fathom, but I'm addicted to it so powerfully I'll probably never break free.
Scream to me your insides so I can know them loud and clear, raw and dark like the inside of your mouth, the cave of your emotions, my comfort zone between your lips so alive. Your voice is cloud nine, my home, a separate peace from this dark drive down cop-covered country roads. While it soothes we soar with music and laughter and love; Mount Doom love. Let's throw the ring in together so we never have to see the end of this codependency. We'll be the same together while we share our differences to become alike. So sing a duet with my to a song I know the words to for once; you can't be the soloist forever, and I want to share you with the radio (it's a selfish little whore for you).
And then I have some insertion from my father. He was all proud that he thought of a really good metaphor for being uber-depressed. His metaphor was "down the drain with razor blades," which is actually a good band name for a really emo band. We'll get that printed on a hoodie ASAFP.
More sort-of-songage:
Keep me here forever, under your wings to watch your every move, your guard, a sentinel for your love [I feel like I've heard that before, so I might have been stealing]. But I won't kidnap you, lock you in my tower to let your hair down into my fingers, so much thread unraveled into me. You belong to her and I belong to myself, scared to feel something different but wanting it all the same.
So yeah. Be gentle if you have criticisms. I never write lyrics or poetry. I'm a prose person.
visara:
I'm only getting around to do this now ...
SPOILERS! (Click to view)
