2 dirsty glasses and a sound something like burning a whasps nest later...

only with ink and paper do people bare there souls to the world. all reality just a lie to the great literature of our time. i see no beauty in this world. i speak none. hear none. recieve none. but when its written, when all of languages fantazmagorical intricacies are applied. poetry is born, and it smiles up at me. as if it new me before the universe burst into life. my mother was a cliche.

i sit there and think to myself i cant grow up in a world thinking love is this temporary

the thing i miss about her most is the closeness. the feel of two souls on the verge of touching is quite magnificent. electrifying. sentimental. heartbreaking. as though all love manifests itself within the feel of her skin. sharing a beautiful moment in time. splitting it right down the middle with our pure, unadulterated passion for each other. i sit here and tantilize myself with the memories of a far gone lifestyle. and they feel asthough they never existed at all. either way the edges are worn from continuous playback. touching from a distance further over time.

its funny, the small things you remember. my mind wallows in unacountability. its like trying to transcend purple velvet laced with barbed wire. that final sting as it pulls away. i am inconsolable. lost within the realms of a cultural love mistake. pushing the envelope in an attemp to free myself from this place. i am but a character from a soap opera who is fluent in russian literature. i wish i where a Warhol silkscreen, hanging on the wall. my thoughts are not of a bright future with theropy classes and 2 valium to be taken every 3 hours with hot ribena. no. instead theres just you. you and your smile that forces me to remember. i am living within paradime of my own making. stewing in delusion, seasoned with repression. not even the pills will talk to me now.

i am all the whithering rose petals. fallen onto laminated flooring after that valentines day mess. i am the unmistakeable sound of the oncoming hypnogogia (often the slow vibrating sound of fear). i am every troubled teen holding a razorblade. i am tha drunk guy who seems to speak with the alien tongue. i am the loose change rattling about in your pocket. soon to be lost between the sofa cushions. i am the werid steins you find in the secluded corners of your kitchen. i am the stray blu tac found on every 16 year olds walls left from where the posters of idols once hung. i am the poets vengeful malice. i am those bob dylan lyrics you wish you could make sense of but at the same time know its far better to be unaware.

to sing one must first be brave. to dance one must first find feet. feckless feet. fudge featus feeling for faculty. /f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/. hmmm. definatly a working progress.

time is highlighted by human perception. we are aware of time. we are aware of a passing second. memory is a certainty we often take for granted. though memory is often a tough burden to bare. in a moment i shall go to bed and attempt to sleep. if i wake up remembering a dream that included you, i shall note it down. so you think of something to say whilst i go fulfill this busy schedule. i picture my dad laughing and sayin "you dont know the meaning of a busy schedule".

you where the only girl that didnt make my hands clammy. did i tell you that? no i dont think i did.