Define your love and affections.
through struggling voices, and mediocre emotions? Harsh noises and a little bit uncomfortable statements
intended to hurt a little bit more.
She tried to write out exactly what she felt, leaving room for interpretation and assumed art.
This was a hope course. A hold off, and a reassurance that it will be okay.
Travelling thousands of kilometres in an hour made it okay.
Falling out of the sky with people who loved her made it okay.
Let's get together, snapping pictures at a cemetery.
We've got too much memory. (And we never see you.)
We are the masters of awkward situations.
Bringing alcohol on a boat trip. And teaching your nieces to cheat our future husbands and life partners.
We don't mind if you are failing English, or trying your personal best not to be a bisexual. (Because I believe they're kidding themselves.)
As long as you don't ask us what's our poison.
Because we've got everything.
Reasons(excuses) why she was “sad” included her dirty fingernails, her missing Science sheet, not being able to write songs on my guitar she didn’t have, not having enough to love, and Blink 182 all hating on each other.
How do I look?
You look like a Charlie’s Angel!!
And i can always keep a straight face.
Carrides and porridge. This is the measurement of our love. (I would almost say this is what is left)
Weight gains, and japanese food not ate by everyone (was our trap, our)
time was a tester. or a timer.
An excuse of a more than questionable theory of emotion.
is this why?
I can still look back on it, and explode. To give it enough credit. It could have meant something.
Chainline communication, maybe that's why we falter, that's what grows us apart.
That's us growing up into the life we want that has nothing to do with the life
we had when we peed on ourselves. (and laughed)
I want to be an artist. of things that brilliance and
move of things that occur between true and honest beings.
He wants to be a security. to find certainty, and existence without question.
She looks to be his. Contented off just honest love. She counts on that.
And I needed this. Not the truth about how you just don't really love your husband,
or what that bitch did to you. I didn't need to know about your hidden pains, and my new found guilt.
I needed an okay. Not my hypocritical dumbfuck attempt at stagnant denial.
I don't want to live by the social code, nor by a moral code.
My life is marked by my coming of death which we are all sure of becoming.
My conscious is too sorry to be referred to as a skill, nonetheless a talent.
This isn't a wish to be any different
an exhaust to inspiration
and a step down from wit
This isn't a need for laughter
an honest request for truth
I can deal with ambience
or restrained order
but you have all got to be shitting me.