Tired.

I'm tired of bittersweet. I'm tired of thinking so much. I'm tired of sitting alone and pointing the gun at my temple. I'm tired of being myself. I'm tired of not being myself.


Noise. So much of it.
No more noise. Please.


I'm so out of myself...

"Good"

"Good"

I see what you're doing
I've seen it before
I've played with the patterns
I found them a bore

The mood swings erratic
The party's gone sour
The times have grown slim
And the heart is devoured

Chorus
I'll be the bad one
In the sun when you tell your tale
I'll be the bad one
In the dark when no one cares
I'll be...

The wages of sin are...
Are my daily rapport
The one's left behind
Someone else will adore

And to those I have wronged
No apologies forth
And to those I have loved
Look for me in the North

Chorus...

In the light you dream and sway
Hide your ugly truths an play
In the night I waste and burn
As I wait for luck to turn

Chorus...
I'll be...
bastard
thief
unfaithful
creep
disdainful
piece of shit

I'll be...

The Kicker.

It's one of those nights when I know I should be sleeping but I don't want to sleep. Been dreadfully tired all day. My little girl gave me a difficult night and having a broken foot are not a walk in the park in tandem. The evening has proven... interesting.

Like some sick little heroin junkie I keep getting into these situations with certain people that leave me wide open. I'm a sucker and I know it. I don't seem to care that much about being a sucker anymore, though. We're all fools, for one reason or another. We're all fools.

I am enriched by all this, I know. Parts of me - the more physical aspects - influence me in ways that would seem rash; act out needs, desires. I'd like to think I know better. It's still difficult.

Life is a funny affair. Someone's laughing, of this I am sure!

Itch.

Funny word, that: Itch.

When we itch we scratch. Simple. But it's wrong. Not just in the physical sense. Sometimes we crave things that may be very detrimental to ourselves.

I itch on many levels. I think I won't scratch, though. Much like the itch on the skin beneath the cast over my right foot, I will ignore my itches.

The Fickle Flowers.

It’s what you don’t say, that’s what gets under people’s skin.

They guess at what you say and the issues you skirt, and when you don’t quite give an answer it’s like their minds need to fill in the blanks. They create these elaborate fantasies about what it is we do, what it is we think, what it is we are...

It’s that way with women, often enough. They ask, they say, they throw lures and hope you bite. You brush closely to the bait and might gnaw carefully at the worm on the hook and they build these sand castles that have little base in reality.

But we also build our castles, which are far more fragile, so we keep them under lock and key. We ensconce them away in our labyrinthine hearts lest they get trampled by the fickle art. Much like a spider female hides her womb behind maddening twists of tissue, we hide our cores from the pricking ones in a bizarre role reversal.

As they dance away from us we sway in feigned disinterest, we must play this game of ebb and eddy to lure them into our caves. Once they have come in we falter in fear for we’ve all but forgotten where we've put away the keys. Our inner beings lost, forever cut-off from the outside. In striving to achieve this we lose the children we were and become callous monsters, witnesses in horror as we simply watch: we blunder and plunder and level the gardens.

Untitled Lyrics

sitting out on a ledge
i see the world so clear
i live a crippled life
within a shroud of fear

the lights, they look so bright
the people, far away
and in the fall of night
we feel the toxic sway

fitting out of the view
the problems seem so small
like skipping stones on a lake
The fool will always fall

the sights they seem so real
the tastes they seem so right
the hearts, they beat to heal
what's hidden in the night

And the moon is bright.