raiSINgirl420
02-02-2003, 07:13 AM
starving for what i don't know.
but anyways, i haven't been in here in a little while. i love all this communication. very nice.
thought i would post a few pieces...yeah maybe 3, yes. 3.
i love that they have both the art and writing boards, you can peek into a persons soul/brain with art.
"not even a one in six billion chance."
they came with the needles and thread
before i had a chance
to suck the air
in
the patchwork
was stitched
speedy quick
a smack on the ass
and i was pushed on my way
into the damp darkness
of light
and the truth is still...
in hiding
and the truth is still...
playing games with me
all these years
i’ve spent in question
of what i really am
and why i’m even here
or if i really matter at all
sleepwalking through my waking life
caught up in my mind
cells balancing
to shape my senses
while you sit
worried
about expenses
and the truth is still...
as hollow as your science laws
they’ve been through this before
you’ve been through this before
everyone goes through this you know
and the truth is still...
a ghost
in the attics of our minds
and the truth is still...
out of our reach
and the truth is still...
not here
and the truth is...
not here with me
and the truth is...
and the truth is......
"target practice."
you’re gunning me down
with the malicious words
that are being fired from your 45 caliber mouth.
your lips are flaming.
the smoke rolls out after the shot and
forms a silhouette of my damaged heart
and then it fades away into thin air,
(like i wish your words would fade from my head.)
on the floor,
your feet are accompanied by blasted shells
and you still have an abundance of clips
full of negative adjectives and adverbs.
i seek the stillness that comes along with the reloads.
i beg to bleed to death.
i am just target practice for your repressed anger,
and i am livid.
i want to tell you to fuck off
but i have a feeling that these scars
will beautify the canvas.
"7-1+2."
sloth lurks
in backalley streets,
sly beneath leaves,
grimily slugging forth
at 2am
under the refraction
of a streetlight.
sloth peaks
from under the tongue,
climbing up your lip,
swaying on the breeze,
on the breath
of our
meaningless language.
sloth hides
in a black corner,
in an empty room,
catching the sunlight
in bits,
under the echo
of the neighboring apartment.
sloth marches
in the pink skin
of an organ,
in an army of one,
they take over
under layers
of hidden translucence.
sloth works
for the man,
a slow dead trek
of wasted time,
of emotion undefined,
slaughtering his eyes
under the florescent of light.
sloth runs
in muscle archives,
fighting the seconds,
turning blue,
on a winter morning
of slapping pavement,
under the break of day.
sloth grows
in the heat,
on warm airducts
in a college apartments,
in the glimmer of candles
while two become one
on love.
sloth clocks
his time mastering
this but never that,
slowly aging,
holding on to one fact,
pinned beneath theory
but never giving up.
sloth is
the lipstick of time
on the figure 8
wading in the silence of black holes,
waiting for the inevitable
below showbiz light-
in an aimless search for
truth.
but anyways, i haven't been in here in a little while. i love all this communication. very nice.
thought i would post a few pieces...yeah maybe 3, yes. 3.
i love that they have both the art and writing boards, you can peek into a persons soul/brain with art.
"not even a one in six billion chance."
they came with the needles and thread
before i had a chance
to suck the air
in
the patchwork
was stitched
speedy quick
a smack on the ass
and i was pushed on my way
into the damp darkness
of light
and the truth is still...
in hiding
and the truth is still...
playing games with me
all these years
i’ve spent in question
of what i really am
and why i’m even here
or if i really matter at all
sleepwalking through my waking life
caught up in my mind
cells balancing
to shape my senses
while you sit
worried
about expenses
and the truth is still...
as hollow as your science laws
they’ve been through this before
you’ve been through this before
everyone goes through this you know
and the truth is still...
a ghost
in the attics of our minds
and the truth is still...
out of our reach
and the truth is still...
not here
and the truth is...
not here with me
and the truth is...
and the truth is......
"target practice."
you’re gunning me down
with the malicious words
that are being fired from your 45 caliber mouth.
your lips are flaming.
the smoke rolls out after the shot and
forms a silhouette of my damaged heart
and then it fades away into thin air,
(like i wish your words would fade from my head.)
on the floor,
your feet are accompanied by blasted shells
and you still have an abundance of clips
full of negative adjectives and adverbs.
i seek the stillness that comes along with the reloads.
i beg to bleed to death.
i am just target practice for your repressed anger,
and i am livid.
i want to tell you to fuck off
but i have a feeling that these scars
will beautify the canvas.
"7-1+2."
sloth lurks
in backalley streets,
sly beneath leaves,
grimily slugging forth
at 2am
under the refraction
of a streetlight.
sloth peaks
from under the tongue,
climbing up your lip,
swaying on the breeze,
on the breath
of our
meaningless language.
sloth hides
in a black corner,
in an empty room,
catching the sunlight
in bits,
under the echo
of the neighboring apartment.
sloth marches
in the pink skin
of an organ,
in an army of one,
they take over
under layers
of hidden translucence.
sloth works
for the man,
a slow dead trek
of wasted time,
of emotion undefined,
slaughtering his eyes
under the florescent of light.
sloth runs
in muscle archives,
fighting the seconds,
turning blue,
on a winter morning
of slapping pavement,
under the break of day.
sloth grows
in the heat,
on warm airducts
in a college apartments,
in the glimmer of candles
while two become one
on love.
sloth clocks
his time mastering
this but never that,
slowly aging,
holding on to one fact,
pinned beneath theory
but never giving up.
sloth is
the lipstick of time
on the figure 8
wading in the silence of black holes,
waiting for the inevitable
below showbiz light-
in an aimless search for
truth.