this is the end (my friend)

it's all crashing down
and i hate you.
you've won
and i'm broken.

you've stock-piled millions of my memories

the thing is that we've saved our lives together
been through more troubles than strictly necessary
given up on things that made no sense
(strictly speaking, life makes no sense,
but we had the wrong minds at one time
to give up and get out and then wake
up smiling.)
you have a heartbeat
and that's good enough for me.

things keep swirling in unmistakable patterns
and i wonder how fast we're going
that it all seems like one big blur
(waiting for cheesy valentine's day cards
or christmas carols from way back when.)

your fingers have calluses
(and your hands are so small.)

the smile lines won't go away
no matter how little sleep i get.

we will not be the last

it's happening again, the detachment,
floating in a sea of terminal self-doubt,
trying to remember how many pills i swallowed before the next batch.
i found my umbrella yesterday.
there are carpet burns on my knees,
and i don't remember why.
i'm so afraid of this feeling,
and hearing your voicemail
makes it worse. (you sound so happy,
but i know the truth: you're so tired,
but your smile is so real.)
wonder what you hear in my voice,
the way it trembles at the end--
if you remember that it was
me that saved you.

my night is electric

have this weird sense of vertigo
wrapped up with a side of déjà vu
it'll all end in a crash
and then we'll all be a little bit better in the morning
when it doesn't look so bad

demented and sad but sort of social

there's a café right up from the street
that serves bagels and "new york style hot dogs"
and i stood there in awe, wondering
is this what the united states is...
pickles and sickly sweet doughnuts
and a&w root beer?

i have no idea what to believe
you can't believe your eyes
you can't believe your ears
your mouth moves so fast that
the words seemed blurred
like rain running in ropes down my window

it gets dark so quickly here;
it's not even one o'clock where you are.
what are you having for lunch?
what are you writing about today?
i get sad thinking about your letters
so many other people read them
and somehow it maks them better
knowing that people are trying to figure you out
like me.

i get you sometimes, big brother
but other times i'm just as lost as you are.

the patron saint of the scene

it's so eerie
to look at my life
with a mirror of somebody that knows
(big brother, i love you)
somebody with sparrows and guns
whose skin stretches so clean
tomorrow she'll be burned alive
and then canonised.
i was thinking of writing an autobiography
but then i realise
it'll just be a memoir
of all the people i've met
(do you remember the first thing you said to me?
i do. have you ever wanted to gut yourself
for someone?)
i haven't found the ground yet
i'm afraid of slamming into you.

the white boy is back (and you know he can never be whack)

something happens when you're thousands of miles from home
(why is france 33?)
and suddenly your doors are open
and you eat lunch under a canopy next to a building that's 500 years old
and all you can think about is
that last text
that last phone call
that last 7 in the morning conversation with someone 9 hours behind you
(why is america 001?)
and suddenly nothing makes sense
and you're crying
and he asks what's wrong
and she says she'd care more (if she wasn't sick)
i miss you
and you
and you

why she is never happy

the last time i had a group of people celebrate my birthday was my 9th or 10th birthday. my birthday is the day before new year's eve, five days after christmas day. nobody cares. it's just a blip on the calendar. on my 16th birthday, i ate at an italian restaurant and watched a movie by myself. if you ever wondered why i'm not ever very happy, there's all you ever had to know.

without god, life is a matter of opinion

i have secrets that i haven't told. i have climbed without falling. i'm waiting and it's not coming and now i've no plans. i've cried and hidden in corners and somehow you don't care. you just think i want to do this, want to be sad every day. how can that even be plausible? how can you even ... i've tried to end it so i won't be so sad. i fucking hate this, this constant bearing down, this constant rejection.

fuck this. i can't help it. i think nothing but positive, and look at what's happened.

for england james

my head hurts because for the millionth time i've been thinking too much about too many things. i have way too much on my mind, and nowhere to put all these extra memories and thoughts and plans.

here i am, in all my clichéd glory, for you to consume and spit out, and leave an empty husk.

saying there's no porn on the internet is like saying there's no chinese people in china

i have had a vision of my future, and i'm scared of saying anything.
in case, like everything else i have ever hoped for, it doesn't come true.
but it's pretty nice, and for once i'm happy.

my life came tumbling down, like an intricate picture made of dominoes.
or sand paintings that buddhist monks spend hours on, only to destroy them after a day.
now i'm busy separating the colours and putting them back in their appropriate boxes,
watching stupid shows on television and going to sleep at half three.

my mind's eye is ridiculously inaccurate, and gives me hope where there is none.
i hate that nobody wonders, and nobody asks, and somehow your unhappiness is all my fault.
i don't have anything much to contribute, except that everything slipping through my fingers makes me want to let go that much more.

when you assume you make an ass out of uma thurman

this is my blog
it has no beginning
and it has no end.