That Good Night

And so she fell sleep into that good night,
Where dreams were promised to come true,
Where attention deserved was granted,
Where soul was more important than what was on the outside,
Where she could run without being chased,
Without pressure breathing down her neck.

Where some would say she took the easy way,
Others would say that took the real courage.

And while she flowed away in her dreams,
she flowed away in his.
While her thoughts lied elsewhere,
she lied in his.

While she ran away,
He tried to follow her,

Where he felt pathetic for chasing her,
others felt it was a lost cause as well.

He felt a taste of jealousy as well as an understanding.

And left her alone to do her running.

A Broken Heart Mending

Hiding behind broken mirrors of the store front windows
And lying to the bleeding hearts who don't know where they can go
Sitting there crying for the ones lost and the ones found
in a quest for resistance, they're quickly losing ground

I've lost myself in the images of you
I've drowned myself in the ashes of our youth

We've got the remnants of our past locked up
next to the reminiscence,
My scars can't breathe from our last conflict
from our last clash of our conscious

The sacrosanct love of the guns for hire
I've lost myself in Saint Elmo's Fire

[I'll finish it later...]

Match Made on Earth

Then the time came.
Me and Casey were just sitting there. The broken swing over on the tree was dead still. It made me feel better in a way. It made me feel like maybe it was better to stay inside, where the life was. In that same way though it seemed like the perfect getaway. The stillness in the forest would seem so contradicting. The scariness of the silent and hidden dangers and the sensation of being alone.

I wanted to be alone.

I just wanted to be alone.

Now that Casey started to be actually happy around me, I just didn't seem to want any of it. I had no idea why. Here was the girl of my dreams literally just sitting in my lap, and I wanted to be with myself. I wanted to think my own thoughts.

So really, what happened to me?

She jumped the border.
That door that separated the dry, flickering excavation site I called my basement and the panicked killjoy of what was left of the public opened more times than ever, so that Casey could almost trip every time she came down to sit with me. Her sweatpants, t-shirt, and white sneakers just killed me every time, I swear.

When she was awake, I was so self conscious and destroyed my brain with my worries. Who was she with? Why did she talk to me of all people? What if she isn't just talking to me? Why did she leave me alone so often and yet, not at all? Why did she seem so happy around me, leaving her stress behind, and yet she still went back to her world?

When she was asleep, I continued to destroy myself, telling myself that she wasn't dreaming of anyone else. Telling myself to calm down, I'm not her only thought. Then I started to wonder how much I actually did come up in her everyday life.

These were the things best left to the emos that constantly screamed through my stereo.

So this is what they felt.
Those poor commercial punk bastards.

Their voice seemed too fake to mean anything. I still related to their words. It was like they were accidentally right. No way that they could slit their wrists and still make millions a year. Everytime they took a breath, they had another C-note in their bank account.

It wasn't fair.

So me and Casey were just sitting there.

I was thinking of all these things, too concentrated on her to think of anything else. Maybe this feeling would pass over time. Just like how we got over that swing. Just like how that swing used to swing with me and her taking turns, I would get over the turns in my stomach.

Maybe this is only a fake moment.

I really need to cherish these kind of things.

The Riot

I think this is the best we've ever been, on top of our mental world.
We're finally in a place where we aren't falling apart.

So maybe it did work out.

I'm finding myself so conveniently without crying myself to sleep.
I'm not letting anything seriously get to me. I reason with myself.

I'm not dying anymore.

It's almost as though we're stronger from the drowning, from the fallout of our personal cold war.

Kanye West has nothing on us.

Slipping away

I can feel myself slowly flowing away on the linoleum floor, with the sink running and the sliding glass door open.

I hear the birds chirping in what now appears to be a melancholy way. Sometimes I wonder how they can be so oblivious and then I envy their simpleness. I wish I could be just living, instead of caring so much and now slowly flowing away on this linoleum floor. The tiles are sticking to my syrup skin.

My eyes aren't helpful anymore. I thought back to when I spun that plastic bat around in circles until my head exploded from dizziness and the bat would fly free of my grasp. My once useful eyes would reflect spiderwebs back to me from the broken window.

What was I doing here? When they kept saying they missed me, how much longer until they gave up on my showing up again? They can't miss me all the time.

Recently I became less careful. I spilled things and didn't rush to clean them up. Instead, I washed them drip away, acting like I had all the time in the world before it hit the electrical socket.

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Really what more can you say?
It's almost as if you ran out of
Questions, Problems, Concerns

And you don't want to come up with new ones

The side stories, the comments, they're not reserved
so why act like it?

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I feel so blind, said the homeless, and the box drifted away under suspicious circumstances. One of the honest was lost in the stereotype and his cardboard sign was left in discretion.

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(I never post two in one day, something must be wrong with me)

Backing Vocals

In spite of recent developments, the saulies of our time are out of a job. The dedicated fanatics of a false idol are condemned, the committees of a suspected tomecide. The sentence: life. The philoneists mourn and weep outside the gates to his now vacant home. The background instrumentalists are no longer needed, now free to pursue solo careers and the video editors have another sensation to capture and, unfortunately, immortalize. Those area code monsters mess with the ratings and those new-age poets "borrow" from the minds of yesterday. The times of harmless and beneficial fun are gone. No more breaking it down and inspiring. Bring on the influences and the pressured ones. The industry has grown into a neocracy, run by the greedy and the one hit wonders. Once well established artists are dying off or trading it in and dying off. The once well established foundation of their genre is now a melting pot. Experimentation wielded strange and new results. Maybe that's why they worship him. Maybe that's why they spend so much time on his so called impact. His practices of sciamachy bought him national attention and I'm sick of it. His time was before the tainted borderlines. Though tragic, it was expected. Interesting subject, no doubt, but let me know the details when it's all over.