Make Fashion Statement, You Less Than Fashionable “Freaks”

Painting this picture before my eyes
I’ve never seen something so wrond and real
Don’t fake this anymore, please
I know you’re just trying to get to me
And you are – oh you are
So move your ass off my back
Stop pushing me farther into this oblivion
I can’t survive off knowing, but knowing nothing at all
Find me another reason to start believing
Believe me. Just hear me when I say,
“Please save me and show me a miracle.”
It’s been too late, we’re too different now
I think you lied again and again
Hoping I would fall for your not-so enticing words
I haven’t touched the dye lately
So you must be a little light on your feet
And even lighter in your mind

Maybe we can just stop spinning in circles
It’s about time that we get sick
Of this amusement park cliche, this gossip culture board game
So drop the pieces and walk away
I’ve never given something up so easily
I guess you never meant that much anyway
Sorry, baby, we’re just some foolish lost children
Don’t look to a lost girl for some guidance
I can only give so much – till I start taking
I just can’t help myself
Faking this badly made facade
A poem, a confession has opened the can
But what does it contain?
It’s smells a little bitter – so don’t call
Don’t call me weak and naive
For just hoping I could believe in anything you say
I overdosed on the hopeful pills – these high hopes
Will you let them fall on me?
Just whisk me away, please
Blend me into this baking cake
Cake of doom – cake with love
Love has become so fragile
No longer in the peak of it’s youth
So stop moving along like time hasn’t run out
We’re not the perfect four anymore.

Liar, Liar. You’ve turned me weak. Just tell me what is it exactly you seek?

“And I just hope you know,
That if you say,
Good-bye today,
I’d ask you to be true.

Cause the hardest part of this,
Is leaving you… “

Make Fashion Statement, You Less Than Fashionable “Freaks”

Words Sharp As Broken Hearts Will Cut Open Your Tears

You always know how to get the best of me
Even when I’m sure you’re not trying
Sometimes I think I know how this game’s played
But I’m just a girl out of luck
That just might be a little too good with masks
I worry about too many things and they make me insane
Those opinions always got the best of me
Trying to be a “good” person, but what’s “good” anymore?
How can you define perfect in this world so lacking?
But of course, there would be no love without hate
And no light without the dark background
I spent all my time trying to make you all proud of me
Who am I now?

You wrote a letter to me. So, this is your open letter to you. Maybe if I don’t speak your name, this won’t seem so impersonal. Maybe you’ll never read this; maybe no one ever does. But everything’s worth your best bet.

You said everything you write isn’t about me. Well, that shows how self-centered and solipsistic I am. But if I could maybe try to defend myself in some twisted way, I might just be able to explain. Sometimes I’m just trying to search for flaws, and like that painting you thought perfect until you saw DaVinci’s, comparison is my only way. I just hate feeling anything good about myself. Maybe it’s my twisted way of perfecting myself even more, though I’m not much of a perfectionist. Or just maybe it dates back to those skinny, little perfect ditzes from third grade mocking me for everything. For anything I did right the most. No matter how hard I try I can’t break my facade of saying that caring what other’s think is overrated. Well, I never said I’m not a hipocrite. I probably care more than anyone on this Earth what people think. I mean, that’s why I remember every single thing people say and dwell on it for longer than they even remember. It’s why I keep over-analyzing situations and what I say or type. Everything always says something bad about myself. That’s why I can’t stand an awkward silence, because I feel like everyone’s expecting me to say something. And then I do, and I sound like a complete idiot. Maybe I’m just paranoid and am more uncapable to hold a normal conversation without putting up a facade. I always seem to be faking. I’m not much of an interesting person, and that’s why I fake. And afterwards it’s one of those cliche scenes when I hit myself on the head, hating myself for not being able to just be me without caring. I’m just a coward in every way possible.

I’m just analyzing myself again now. I guess I do this more than I thought. Maybe that’s why I criticize everyone, why I’m worse than every single fucker on this Earth. Because I’m one of those girls I hate that has to hate others just to fit in. Because if I’m hating them and they’re hating them too I would finally feel like I have some solid ground to walk upon. I know, it’s not an excuse for being the horrible person I am. Sometimes I try to stop and I just end up feeling like another hopeless cause. Yeah, you probably see now why you shouldn’t be defending me. And it’s why I’ve stopped defending myself. Because they’re always right when they’re criticizing me. And even if they aren’t, at least they actually believe in what they say. I’m just a bad faker with some wannabe poetic words. They said I’m good with words, well, it’s more like the words that dance around me. So many “maybe”s I might just not want to take responsability for what I say. I hate it when everyone yells at me, because then there’s no more peace. Not even in my own head. I never seem to be at peace, I’m always trying to stay on my feet. Is that what makes me so boring? Some days I just sit on my bed listening to actual poetic words and stare out my window thinking, dreaming. I write those stupid, cliche stories to try and get away. Because I don’t have to be on my death bed. I can already hate my life as I look back on it.

You can ask for another chance, but I’m just asking not to take another chance on me.

“And it’s over, but it just started.
The blood stained the carpet.
Her heart like a crystal.
She’s lucid and departed.
A life left behind, she can find in her mind gone away.”

Words Sharp As Broken Hearts Will Cut Open Your Tears

A Splutter Of Words And A Few More Weeks, Till We All Fake A Smile For The Holidays

I may be between the lines
But you’re cutting it a bit too close
Everytime I’m trying to find the word
And your catching me with an antonymn
Do you remember when we felt like kids?
And this world couldn’t break us down?
Now these shards are laughing at us
And it’s to late to say
Anything to make me feel better about myself
Or anything that’ll restore some faith
“Always yours” never said so much
As when you confess your regrets in your journal.
For what it was worth
I could insult your back
But it’s always me, here, forever
And I’m used to sharing alone.

I feel like I’m always switching friends that I’m losing the whereabouts of the ground. The lawyers on TV dance around the courtroom like that’s their real job. Where do they go when the screen switches to monochromatic crackling lines? I’m losing myself in this dance of backstabbers, but we never knew who was winning. You always say something that makes me feel like the camera’s on me. I’ve always had a problem with the stage and spotlight.

I spent the whole day dancing in circles and figuratively too. This isn’t the first or the last time I can’t pick a side. I never like to dissappoint. But a five star review is quite costly, now isn’t it? I don’t think you’re understanding my moves, but you were supposed to be the leader. How do you drop the piano and expect me to play right after? I haven’t tried pulling the rabbit out of the hat yet. And still, you’re always pushing me into the dark, then they wonder why my eyes and mind turned black.

The daily tabloids are for the girls that need some guidence, not for the girls who’s lips might move faster than enough. So should we all get a divorce from a wannabe rap star, who’s child we bare, and then get married in Italy? Parents tell their little girls to live their own life, but when that life includes a cd with so many scratches it looks like your wrist and some not so skillfully poetic words, who’s to blame now?

I forgot to write you confessions for a little while now. I’ve been too preocupied with this clearance rack video game called “Life”. Maybe it’ll be a good X-Mas present for you. Hello, reality is on line two. Then who’s on line one? I’ve been drinking green tea and hoping it’ll clear my vision of green. The color is nice, but a little too much is quite the sin, I hear.

The plane flying over-head just flew past the birds. Destiny is evolving into the sixty-year-old uncle sitting on your couch smoking marijuana…. legally. So much pain, you needed to fake an escape root. Through Red Riding Hood’s woods and into the Little Mermaid’s Sea, while you follow the yellow brick road, you can wander as far as you want as long as you keep your imagination locked to your front door. My mind is afraid of heights and still sitting on your second story windowsill, but my eyes are looking anywhere else. What happened to “you’ll always miss your childhood”? Because I thought I’d move to Neverland, but the rent was just too high. And now I’m still between happy that I’m here and sad that I’m nearly never.

These bands, whining about broken hearts and crashing hips, didn’t create the scene. The kids trapped by four walls with razor sharp dollars did.

“So don’t tell me what to write,
And don’t tell me that I’m wrong
And don’t tell me not to reference my songs within my songs
You backstabber! hope grabber! greedy fucking fit haver!

A Splutter Of Words And A Few More Weeks, Till We All Fake A Smile For The Holidays

Acceptance Isn’t The Same Thing As Bitching To One of Your Friends

Why’s it somehow always my fault? She can keep writing in her blog and all her suicide notes that it’s all my fault. Well, fine. Blame it all on me. I’ve got the weight of the world pushing me ten feet under and there’s really no light at the end. So, if she wants to tell me how I’m doing everything wrong and how I’m a traitor, a bitch, a fake, a liar, etc. Well, you know what? Get. A. Fucking. Ticket. And. Get. In. Fucking. Line.

I can’t do everything anymore. Why do I have to help everyone when about only one person is someone I’d actually trust with my secrets? And I’ve stopped seeing her and she’s on her way to moving on. Call me all that you want. I’ve given up. There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t told myself ten times worse. But did I write you a fucking suicide note? No, I’m still living and breathing despite my mentality. So don’t fucking lecture me on depression and subliminally ask for my sympathy. I see right fucking through you. You’re more transparent than newly cleaned glass, so stop bitching at me. I try to be a god friend. I try to be a good person. I try, but every time you end up fucking me over in the end.

Insult me for being mad at you, but you can’t blame me anymore. Not again. You blamed me every other time, and every time I came back despite that. Not again. My arms and legs are strained from having to crawl back to you. This time you went too far. And I’m just not ready to crawl back again. So don’t you dare blame your faux-mo on me.

I know, I know. I’m oh so predictable. Yeah, well is it me that’s predictable for repeating the truth. Or you because you keep repeating me to put up this lie by constantly reinforcing it through making, “I’m not emo” your mantra. Get over it, I know you better than you ever admitted I do. Give up, back out. And stop fucking blaming everything on me.

This is all that you’ve told me; never shed a tear. They don’t help; they only comeback down as rain.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?
Or scream it in your face?
Oh, the chemistry between us could destroy this place.
Do I have to spell it out for you?
Or whisper in your ear?
Oh, just stop right there.
I think that we’ve got something here.”

Acceptance Isn’t The Same Thing As Bitching To One of Your Friends

I Was Always One Step Ahead, And You Were Always One Hand Wrapped Around My Throat

It’s not like it used to be
We stopped smiling a while ago.
You promised not to break a promise
And I said I was a fool for your lies
But we’re all mirrors wrapped up in blood
I’ll hate you for all that I see in myself
And you’ll tell me death is more than I deserve.
If I must, I’d say the same to you.

It’s been a hard day. I never said you couldn’t have you’re own friends. But I also never said I’d like them. You’re telling me not to get offensive to your every critique. Well, you’d better find a mannequin. Because I’ve got a mouth that could paint you the new Mona Lisa. You said I was never very good at art. And did I ever say I was? But if you can’t learn how to share, maybe you’re not worth my smile. You can’t seem to find a friend to stay. And I could say I feel the same. I’m tired of always having to be the give up, get out when I’m always the one that has to try. Do you always feel the need to make me feel like shit?

I’m flunking out of reality, but you’ve got to be sixteen to drop out. It’s pulling me by the neck and waiting till I drown. Are you helping them again? I sat at the head of the table and cried for an hour, listening to the whispers of ghosts. We’re so poetically pathetic, and I’ve never even tried. I could feel the burning tears when I walked away, but a scowl’s better than make-up. Are we fighting again like the alarm clock and then we turn off at ten? It’s time to stop telling me how horrible I am, I received the newsletter from alone.

You never wrapped an arm around me and let me cry on your shoulder. But why should I do the same? I told you karma’s a bitch; well, she must be your twin. When you read my cries on this very page and promised you’d never do this again, am I so foolish to believe you? Or am I simply desperate?

I tried to laugh off the tears, but they only came out as chokes and splutters of never-be’s. Just like when you refused to listen, I’m always right in the end. You called it truefuckinglove and I said, “you’re quite foolish, my friend.” Do you expect these lies to come back as millions? Well, I hate to break it to you, but the public’s not as stupid as you seem.

The musicians plays truths, so the politicians can spin their lies. I think you mixed the two.

“This is the moment that you know
That you told her that you loved her but you don’t.
You touch her skin and then you think
That she is beautiful but she don’t mean a thing to me.
Yeah, she is beautiful but she don’t mean a thing to me.”

I Was Always One Step Ahead, And You Were Always One Hand Wrapped Around My Throat