I'm Losing Track of All the Days

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
It's obvious to see that I'm smiling and laughing uncontrollably.
Guess what?
It's over you, asshole.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Don't make me laugh.

I seriously can't stop.

I can't see you getting along in life.

Look at you, with your job and steady income.
You couldn't cut it.
She left you.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Asshole.
Don't be so kind to yourself.
Go the fuck home.
Nobody wants you here, dickhead.

You won't get anywhere in life.
Go back to your suburbia, Jesus.

Who the fuck do you think you are?

I'm glad to see that she sees you the same as I.
For once.

For once. She didn't shred one tear.
Because Whatsername doesn't care anymore.
You're gone in her mind, asshole!
You're dirt!
You've become what you hate!
Grit your teeth. Go ahead.
I'll still be laughing all the way.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

What's that?
She's the best you ever had?
But you can get along?
Aw! Look who's grown up!
Just a memory you say?
Nice fucking tattoo then.

Stop being so fucking poetic and walk away.

You're too young and healthy looking.
Leave town before it leaves you.
Don't you dare insult me.
Keep running.
Just go.
Now.

-- St. Jimmy

Pulling Titles

I am the American Idiot.
I am the Jesus of Suburbia.
This is my City of the Damned, but I Don't Care.
You are my Dearly Beloved.
Are you listening?
My holidays are great, but they're followed by Tales of Another Broken Home.
Because of where I am, I walk on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
I walk alone.
I walk with my fists clenched at my side so I don't hurt anyone.
I walk with my head pointed at the ground because of the jealousy and rage and love.

Are we the Waiting?
We are the Waiting.

I am the waiting.
I am St. Jimmy.
I am whoever you want me to be.
I am not going to take this anymore.

But I do.
Give me Novocaine.
I can't take this.
I can't. I can't.
Don't make me.

Jimmy calls me a dickhead.
Mr. Two Dollar Bill.

I need my own mind.
I need to let myself go.
I need to go anywhere but here.

I'm in my corner of my own mind.
She's a rebel.
She's a saint.
Why does she run away?

Nobody likes you.
Everyone hates you.
They're all out without you.
Having fun.

With each other.

Don't fucking feel like that.
There is no fucking right for that.
No fucking right, do you hear me?
No. No.

Give me Novocaine.

She's an Extraordinary Girl.
She runs.

Where have all the martyrs gone?
Where is the underbelly?
Where are the holy scriptures of the shopping mall?

Covered up.
Just like everything else.

Underneath that paint is St. Jimmy's own scarlet.
St. Jimmy knows what to do.
Mr. Two Dollar Bill.

Give me Novocaine.

Wake Me Up When September Ends.
September arrives too soon in October.
Count by ides for me, will you?

Now he's dead to me.
He blew his brains out and I helped.
The ides arrived too soon, Mr. Two Dollar Bill.
Let the seagulls have him.

Am I the one stuck in the rain with the shallow dreams of hope?
Why are my hopes in the short end of the pool?
He was the light in the beginning.
My ticket out.
My way gone.
Now he's gone.

I couldn't be prouder.

She's gone.
No. No. No.
She's not allowed to be.
I just wanted to get my life together.

I had a job.
I had security.
I had a way to live.
I worked at East 12th Street and allowed you to live.
But I guess it wasn't rebellious enough.

She left with the words ringing in my head.
You've become what you've hated.
Nobody likes you.
Everyone hates you.
They're all out without you,
having fun.

No.

I need my coffee break.

After ten cups of coffee, you're still not here.
You're gone.

No.

I need you.

You opened your eyes and didn't like me.

I love you.

Where'd you go?

Thank you for that peace of inspiration Tully.
I don't know where to go.
I'm stuck between my home and my vacation home of freedom.
It would be more obvious but I can't think like that.

I am the son of rage and love.
The Jesus of Suburbia.
I'll always be a great memory.
Where'd you go?

Home.
We're coming home again.

I'm running until my lungs burst and crash in on themselves.
Until the saliva runs try and I choke on my own air.
I'm running until both the shoes and my soul have nothing.

I'm hitting the ground running.

I'm coming home.

---------------

You left.
I thought I saw you.
You were as clear as day.
Why?
Was it a dream?
A daydream?
Is it the Starbucks or the paint fumes?

I don't remember your name.
Your face I'll never forget.

I love Whatsername.
I love you.



=============

Yeah not really original in terms of idea but whatever.

Imaginary Perspective

The things I nitpick at are just not the same.
Are they really worth picking apart?
Should I really correct little things that bother me?
Is that I really really need to do?

If I correct it, will something else just become more noticeable?
Will correcting that period actually make it Shakespearean?

Or is it the big picture?

Is that Shakespearean piece really what's wrong with it?
No matter fixing the grammar if it's going to end up no better in the end.

Then again, maybe it makes all the difference.

Maybe one rose on the doorstep can solve anything.
Maybe one letter in your mailbox can help the situation.
Maybe one tiny fit of rage will make something more understandable.

It's hard to tell until someone actually goes through with those things.

I'm not the best person in the world. I know for a fact that there are way better people out there than me. I know that I'm not always the most moral.

But I know that I don't deserve this.

Ne 10

A blur of casinos and Toshiba's flash by me.
It's one of those movies where they leave a camera in the middle of a busy street and record all day and then play it back real fast.
I'm experiencing it first hand.

Everyone has someplace to be. Someplace to go.
It's unnatural to be standing still for only a second.

There are too many faces to recognize.

Am I lost?

If I was, I can't be found.

I'm the dead solider lying still in the angry cries of the billboard battleground.

Am I wounded or am I gone?
That's for the medic to decide.