sooky boy.

this is a really bad ajj/pat schneeweis/chris burrow rip-off even though i can neither play guitar nor sing. i'm mostly just posting it so my brain will categorize it as "done".

i've spent at least several years trying to make heads or tails of this shit so i guess i can be called a recovering gambling addict
or maybe a teenage alcoholic with broken bottles of anarchy, though now i only breathe the fumes of noxious human bastardry.
why's the world so thoughtless to force the bend until the break? what's the reason for the nightmares seeping into parts where you're awake?
i'm often using my heart to barter with pretty girls from big cities but i always seem trade it in for shitty cigarettes and self-pity.
don't give up or it's pointless, you better remember you have at stake. remember that dying is for losers and suicide's for fucking fakes.
continue feeding delusions, always keep lying to their face. everyone always moves so quickly at a speed i cannot seem to ever out-pace.
not smoking anymore's for quitters, the whole world will turn to cancer. worship and prayer from sinners for their god never once to answer.
why's any attempt to cease the war machine either outlawed or illegal? can the bourgeois please breakdown for me the legality of good and evil?

you'd think by now i'd have wised up but apparently i'm just too ignorant
or i'd have learnt to read between the lines but too bad that i'm illiterate
or if things would ever add up but i was never that great with my math
or if i could show some emotion but i'm afraid that i'm a psychopath
or i'd have finally found solutions without reverting back to alcohol
or stop failing the few that look up to me because i am bound to fall
or i'd have let myself off the hook but i'm still yet to find an escape
you think by now i could hit the nail on the head but it's bent so out of shape.

sick.

"sick" is should probably be the title for this but i feel like i'm ripping off ceremony.

i'm sick of feeling like a worn down piece of shit - sick of constantly dealing with it.
i'm a little sick of this pointless existence - getting real sick of calling it quits.
i'm getting pretty sick of verbs and nouns - beyond fucking sick of jotting it down.
i'm really, really sick of voices and sounds - kinda very sick of cowards and clowns.
i'm a little sick of Connor Oberst - getting real sick of whoever i'm with.
i'm getting sick of listening to Asking For It - pretty fucking sick of Elliot Smith.
i'm very, very sick of phones and tvs - kinda really sick of technologies.
i'm kinda sick of things being how they have to be - i'm so fucking tired of being me.

i'm rewatching attack on titan and that's pretty cool.

this fucking sucks. big poopybutts. this will get edited and changed a lot.

when i first arrived in this place, i was so sure that i was ready,
i laid down maps to plot my path but couldn't keep the pencil steady.
i'm forever grabbed by callous hands when i'm reaching out for guidance
they take me in and taught me their methods to bolster my over-reliance.
i suppose that i'm fed up with stomach pumps and modern psychiatry,
the significant effort of my best intentions rotted away by anxiety.

each of my fists will stay clenched as the monthly budget of drug addicts,
as tightly as ex-girlfriends did, dragging the blades along their wrists.
i think i've had enough of watching friends die to methamphetamine
and stripping flesh in order feed the gnashing teeth of the war machine.
i've lost count of the amount times i've mistaken comfort for discontent,
i hope i'm there when the penny drops because i need the cash to pay rent.
i'm in over my head, drowning in the failing throes of this fascism
but if the bourgeoisie had their way, i'd be throwing copper at alcoholism.

i split my lips on kissing you realizing i'd rather die alone, i'd rather die alone.

big fucky wucky.

very cringe. many bad.

i'm a selfish, young child crying over lost toys,
if i ever got them back i'm sure i'd totally destroy
because there's some fatal disease that inhabits my head,
it spreads all its venom within the skin that i shed.
it keeps itself fed from the smoke that i breathe,
it plays with the joy of the hopefully naive.
i'm destine for disappointments and chalk outlines
because if i succumb to it, i'll die a thousand times.

i'm always picking at scabs and wounds i have made.
i'm always running from people and places i should've stayed.
my closet's full of skeletons, now i hide them in the walls.
i'm always bitter; seething. plunging knives right into dolls.
i've spent so many nights seeking light when there is none.
i've found a home in spite, it won't let me come undone.
i guess i expected more for the things i am owed.
i push away my friends so they are safe when i explode.

training wheels.

boo hoo.

i try to purge memories but end up with migraines,
my stomach appears to be much less strong than my brain
so i'd swallow my pride but i'll vomit it back up
because i've always been the kind that bites off too much.
i can no longer guide through your self-sabotaging ways
nor can i clear the gravel that caused your skin to graze.
i'm sure that in time your skinned knees will heal,
though i hope i was a good set of training wheels.

so ill-prepared with blunt knives that can't sever,
you think you're so smart but you're not even clever
and as the coke and those long nights chip away at your soul,
i'll scratch at my arms to form trenches and foxholes.
there'll come a time you can no longer outrun the guilt
and you'll need to return to the home that you've built.
whether i'll see you back there or i meet you halfway
maybe you can teach me a few tricks about running away.

patron saint of all clipped wings.

verse/chorus/verse structure sucks. i'm bad at writing choruses/hooks. 

i wish i were as strong as i think i'm sincere
though i think it's much easier if i just disappear.
i'll return to the deep hole from where i emerged
and hide from the things i don't think i deserve.
i'll take all my affection and beat in out straight
into some form or shape to help unburden the weight.
as i'm consumed by the silence, i'll accept my defeat
but i can hear your ghosts still dragging their feet.

i have become the patron saint of all clipped wings,
still haunted by artifacts of songs that you sing.
your ghosts know every section of this fragile, old mind,
they sneak in uninvited as they're trying to find
all the reasons you construe truth into lies,
infest this hallow husk til the host body dies.
i'm lost in memories that are only fragmentary
but i think i've accepted that this is all temporary.

you thought i was dead, oh, how i wish it were true
but instead i always find ways to crawl right back to you.
i'm kicking up dust and stepping on cracks,
followed so aimlessly to help hide my tracks.
stomp out this virus before it can spread
and strip faulty images from my broken head.
i'm running on fumes, doing much worse than you know
and i've not felt at home since so long ago.

i have become the patron saint of all clipped wings,
still haunted by artifacts of songs that you sing.
your ghosts know every section of this fragile, old mind,
they sneak in uninvited as they're trying to find
all the reasons you construe truth into lies,
infest this hallow husk til the host body dies.
i'm lost in memories that are only fragmentary
but i think i've accepted that this is all temporary.

i think i've lost track of where to begin
because i'm still trapped within each and every web that you spin.
still strung along hard by the words that you spoke
but i don't find this funny so i guess i'm the joke.
i've got no self-control, i fuck my best friends,
i'm so sick and tired of knowing how everything ends.
grab all your of needles, spools and your threads,
and sew back together this hole in my head.

i am the patron saint of all clipped wings,
forever haunted by how i ruin everything
your ghosts are so sick of this fragile, old mind,
still searching for something that they'll never find
there's no reason you construed the truth into lies,
you infested like cancer and now the whole body dies.
i'm still lost in dreams so fucking fragmentary
i've still yet to accept that this is temporary.

death consume these heavy bones.

last two things i wrote were shit so i deleted and then combined/changed them.

spend many nights trying to decide the knives and tools to lobotomize,
the cancerous growth inside the skull, drain blood from throat to oxidize.
cut off the hands for use in your alchemy built on foundation of logical fallacy
use alkahest to cauterize the veins and mercury to slowly dissolve the brain.
try to find the wires all in disarray and cut them out to rearrange,
strip the corrosion away from disdain while the wheels and pistons disengage.
renew the switches inside the chest to respond to every button you press
and find a way to save progress towards the countless issues addressed.

spend many hours faulting the design; point out failures and parts misaligned,
replace the gears that crush and grind, remove the inaccuracies you've identified.
pour your acids into hollow cavities, craft gold through the pressurized apathy,
potions, concoctions and spells of arcane to transmute that which you'll never obtain.
spend too much time preoccupied with viruses and the firewalls that fortify,
rewriting code hoping to simplify but circuits short out, rust calcifies.
meanings detach, the colours all fade - everything turned to a scheduled grey.
lie in bed with the seeds that have sown and let death consume these heavy bones.