Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Do not read if you wish to live.

Sometimes I get a little worked up, this I know.
It's not a problem of mine, no flaw or inperfection.
In fact, it all works out for the better, worked up for the better.
I'm going to assume things when you are dishonest with me, just so you are aware.
I'm beginning to see a different side of things, me, you, them, her, him, this, that, the other.
It's incredible that you fail to see the flowers on your side of the grass.
But anyway, the point of the matter is, you're entirely screwed up.
It's not a problem of yours, no flaw or inperfection.
Think of it as a guideline, and nothing more.
My friends tell me things that are untrue.
My friends tell me to wait for you.
My friends tell me everything you do.
My friends tell me they can't keep up with you.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, words mean nothing compared to the sunlight.
It's not as if I've stopped believeing in you... It's more that I feel you have stopped believing in me, so here I state my cause.
This is not a love song, this is not a suicide letter, this is not an essay, this is not a lecture.
This is a peice of art, written for me, by me.
Choose to see yourself amongst my words, if you will, but please don't tell me what to do anymore.
I have enough trouble listening to myself.
If these 'peices of art' go against your beliefs, expectations or political views, I do not apologize, for I never aimed to be your shining star.
I aim to be your eyes.
Now, present to ME yourself. Present to me something to go on, some word of advice, the most important thing you could ever tell me.

I combine obsession and fantasy with morbid things with sickened wings, and thus indulge in the Dark Wonderland. I combine stolen truths with philosophy and drug induced psychosis, and thus indulge in abstract art and delusions. I combine love and lust with death and depression, and thus combine the twisted fairy tales. I combine your mind with mine and thus indulge in synchronicty. I see the exit signs, but the road is blocked by shattered hope.

Do the math.

Don't breed two chihauhau's if you expect fucking Great Danes.
Don't steal my lines and hide them in your mind and think for a second they were meant for you alone.
Don't fucking ask me to improve when that is all I am constantly doing.
Don't tell me I'm arrogant whilst you wear that cocky smile and frown down upon me.
Don't accuse me of knowing nothing when you know nothing of me.
Don't expect great things from me, just accept the things I do.
And, don't you ever pretend for a second we are anything alike, when really, you're in a fucking five star hotel and I'm at a murderscene.

Why would I be at a murderscene? Why not? Why not indulge in the destruction of something beautiful? Is it not, in itself, a form of art? Isn't everything a form of art? Some things just aren't tasteful to certain individuals.

I myself like all the secrets and puzzles hidden amongst the work of Salvador Dali. To study a picture and continually find more things every few minutes and try and work out why the fuck they were put there...
I myself like all the truth and relativity in the words of Maynard Jaymes Keenan, and all the surpressed pervesion in myself that I find amongst the work of Todd Smith.
I myself like the captivating, neverending masterpeice with so many hidden clues and pictures in the works of things such as, Alice in Wonderland, The Da Vinci Code and The Divine Comedy.
I myself like the story structure and 'possibilities' of such things as The Butterfly Effect, The Jacket, Memento and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

When I grow up, I'm going to marry a rockstar. A rockstar with outrageous hair, violent mood swings, a drug addiction and perfectly cliche, supposodly symbolic tattoos.
Why? Because I never wanted anything else.
I'm sick of gentlemen, and lunatics, and punk rockers with an IQ of 0. And let's not forget the crackhead gangsters and the hypocritical artists.
As DIVINE as they all sound, really, they just can't be perfect, and I adore perfect.

I want nicotine and heroin, pure cocaine and LSD, Bourbon and cola with a sprinkling of Salvia and Divine Moments of Truth.

There's a perfect figure in the belly of my mind...

I've gone and made drugs my priority and it doesn't even hurt because I've figured out I'm useless and everything else but fucking up my body and mind.
Now that I know what I am, I'll try and let go of all the things I want to be.
Because dreams are for faggots.
Giving up is the way to happiness.

I painted a white rabbit in our room, just under the blood-red lyrics.
I've done so much and grown so much but... as well as all that is, I'll just put my dreams on hold for everyone who thinks I'm taking up too much space.

And don't call me pathetic, at least I've come to terms with what I am, and am not just trying to prevent deforrestation in a desert.

This was not the intention of this piece, just to be aware, and it's not my intention to have it read by anyone other than me. If you choose to read it, then you have chosen to read every piece of bullshit I spew up, so don't then tell me I can do better, be better, when you have no fucking clue what I'm capable of.
If you choose to know me and stay around for the good things I produce, don't try to destroy me when I flip out, fairweather friend.

This post is to clarify the STRESS you put me under, the DRAMA OVERLOAD of the shit that goes on in my home, the continuous PRESSURE I get to be better, look better, feel better, do better.

I write to release stress. Some people listen to music, some cut themselves, some paint, some abuse drugs, some break peoples faces, some break glass windows, some kill themsleves.
Some like to mix it up a bit.

My writing is not for you.
You don't like it, then simply fuck off.

Anyways, this was not directed at anyone in particular, if anyone is still reading, I'm just having some trouble dealing with my mind right now. :/
It's time to call it quits on this 'peice of art'.

Keep in touch. <3

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