spooks of my night.

I want to write something tonight. But I don’t see what you see and my knees are sore from dancing.


I want to sing a song tonight. But I am not poetic and lyrical enough.

I don’t have tap shoes anyway. I’m weak after all, from all the delusion.

Tonight I will light some candles and make no sense, and read over things that make me feel good because they make no sense. Senselessness is so fun and invigorating. I hope, not boring? I would hate to be boring. I’d much rather microwave a cat than be boring.

I am not morbid and my parents did not commit suicide or walk out on me. Cats are nice animals, but I like dogs better. My cousin says dogs are prettier in China than they are here. Maybe that’s true? Maybe people go to China one day, and get those breast implants that would look so pretty with in their skin-tight corset, because I’m guessing if their dogs are prettier their boobs must be too.

Maybe one day I’ll actually write a book and have pretty butterflies on the cover, and somewhere in the blurb it will say ‘beware, here the last traces of myself I lay bare’, or some other corny shit, because after those words that have left me for a nice home on clean white paper, I’m going to be pretty drained.

But that’s ok too. I’ll need a reason to train it out of town and lose it in a dark, cold field, and find my way back again, following the pebbles, or the roses, if the world is kind enough. And being drained and empty makes the sky seem bigger and the numbness more hollow, and me… I can latch onto raw feeling and let it take me away on its wings. Because I’ll be lighter by then, and too tired to remember that I’m terrified of heights.

I wonder, do we ever think what happens after that?

Either way, tonight is not about thinking. I’m too sensible anyway, I know I’ll come back one day. Maybe when I’ve had all the fun, I’ll sit down resigned, have tea, steal myself a proper cat like the one from your house, and have grandkids or something.

Look through my window

how many paper pages are there in a single book, how many words could you speak before you get hit, how many times are you gonna cut yourself, when i'm walking on water while you're stepping in shit?

Baby, karma's back to bite you.

Truth is hard to swallow.
So you pray to God to justify the way you live a lie.

And you take your time.
And you do your crime.
Well you made your bed.
I'm in mine.

And you take your time.
And you stand in line where you'll get what's yours,
I got mine.

just enough to hear you whispering.

You know you have nothing to say. But everyone listens anyway.
Nothing worth remembering is coming out of your mouth.
Everything you say isn't something to live by. Your words are not your teachings.
But you clear your throat and you're still talking to ears that will never block you out.

You figure this is the closest you've come to being adored. You're convinced you did it all without trying.
The real question is, what were you doing? Are these people just cases? Just flukes? Just accidents to your apathy? Just victims to your cause?
Guilty isn't the right word for it. Neither is apologetic.
You clear your throat again, just to hear them adjust to you.

tripping over what was never yours.

Can you see it? Can you feel it? Can you hear the music in your mind? Never let anybody stop what keeps your fire burning alive...

Struggling through this quite place, as the place turned gray inside my mind. The road seems to go narrow and I think I reached the end of the rope...

The room is crowded by the noise, and now the silence gently falls. Breaking silence inside my mind like a bottle crashed into the ground.

They will never know, what I am looking for. I keep trying, trying to find the one. To eliminate this paranoia inside my mind. Is it you, the one i left behind..

I can run but I cant hide, All the pain I had inside, Maybe I will never understand, yet He will understand. He offers me hope. in the midst of hopelessness.. He stood in my shoes and this mind crowded by the noise.