I used to be a baby

"I used to be a baby.." - Michelle Williams in Synecdoche New York

I see your face
I see your face
I see your face
You're my mom, you're my dad
You're my friend
You used to be my friend
I used to be a baby

I cry like a child, like a baby, when I remember my little hands
I used to hold your hand
We used to walk, without our car
Down the street
I used to be a baby

You used to take pictures of me

Bad News For Herr Müller - Part 6

FABIAN

I wake up this mornin', real diss'pointed, like I always feel wakin' up from one a' those baby dreams. Even so, I'm givin' out this crazy laugh; sounds like hissin' sounds, 'cause the dream was real funny. I'm eatin' cereal thinkin' about work. A note slips under my door, next to the paper. The paper's shoved under there all usual, all crumpled like usual. The note just says, "Thanks, Müller", and it's from my landlord, Benson Bishop. He's sayin' it for when I handed'm some rent in advance so he could buy some cool, crazy bike. A "chopper", he was callin' it. I think it was a cool deed I did. I'm feelin' pretty good this mornin', like one a' those "normal guys". I'm feelin' so normal. I think I'll walk to work today, and grab a black coffee. Just like a proper, respectable work guy, walkin' to work, drinkin' a coffee, readin' some news. Ready for life, I am. My hair looks great. So great, in fact, I'm goin' to work. I'm goin' to kick some butt. I kick the note, the one from Benson Bishop. Slide it across the floor with a cool left foot, an' I grab the paper on my way out the door. I'll read it on my way to work.

Bad News for Herr Müller - Part 5

SUSAN

So, there's my story on the front page. It's a half-page article under a close-up of Jack Wolterbeek. It only shows about three quarters of his face; a serious, pseudo-sombre face. The likeness cries far from the pig I met yesterday in my office.




"Ancient remains found buried in rock quarry"




That's what the headline says. It's not my headline, and I haven't the slightest why they called the remains "ancient" when it clearly states in my article that, ". . . early forensics say the bones are estimated to be around sixteen years old, judging by basic outward appearance. . .", and I'm angered again, mostly at myself. I throw the entire paper through the elevator doors as they buzz softly, sliding shut.

Bad News for Herr Müller - Part 4

FABIAN

This particular night, I'm dreamin' I never left the baby kid, never put him back there. At the quarry, I mean. That's where I found'm. I dream he's all grown up some, like, six years or somethin' an' he goes to pre-school. He'd be about seventeen now, for real. I wonder where he's dwellin' now, or with what fam'ly. Nineteen-ninety-one, it was; left him back at the quarry for someone else, better, to find. The dream, anyway; it's about the kid when he's, like, six. In pre-school. I'm teachin' him all these funny things, wild facts he's laughin' at so nicely. I tell'm, "Got any inquiries today? Questions, son?"


"What's a thorax?", he asks. I tell him it's the area between the neck and the abdomen. Funny, I tell him this in the dream, 'cause it's somethin' I looked up for myself in the dictionary, few hours before bed. Thorax. So, I tell my dream kid, like some smart-ass dad, an' he goes to pre-school an' gets in some dang'rous trouble sayin' to his pretty teacher, "Nice thorax!", and I've gotta go in that next mornin'. Parent-teacher meetin's happen often with this kid.

Bad News for Herr Müller - Part 3

JACK




The girl is killin' me. She's prying like a detective, which I don't wanna deal with. I've already dealt with the police. This Sue Alexander, some journalist for the city paper - it's weird that I'm in her office. I look at all the crap on her desk. I look at her, and think to myself that she's a bit of a piece, but I've been told my standards aren't so high. Sue's writing down every curse word that comes outta my mouth. "But, how did you feel? How did you feel at the exact moment you realized they were the bones of a once living, breathing human?", she asks, not movin' a muscle. Truth is, I felt relieved. Truth is, I'm the monster who buried the poor thing, 'bout a year ago. Errol and me knew what we were lookin' for. So I say to Sue, all wide-eyed, "How'd ya think I'd feel?", and she snaps her fingers.




She tells me, as some chicky walks through the door, "This is Kate. She needs to take your picture," and leaves me with this young girl. I smile at Kate. With a smile, I say, Kate, I wanna go home.

Lovemarks

I have bruises on my hip bones,
I got them from your hip bones
They don't bother me at all

My body looks unwell
But I know the story that these bruises tell
Is one I'd like to repeat tonight
And tomorrow, so come over
You're so nice to me

I have rugburn down my spine
It stings with every move I make, and every time
It starts to go away, we make a brand new scrape
I've had it for a while now, haven't I? Perhaps I'll have a scar
That would be quite alright, because these scrapes remind
Me of life's greatest high

Perhaps it's seen as wrong, to smile and close my eyes
And bite my lip, each time I catch sight of an ugly bruise
Perhaps it's seen as ugly, my marked-up body looking so unwell
But I know the stories that these bruises tell
And I'd repeat them all, until my body's black and blue

When I'm afraid, or when I feel the ways
I often do; when the fire inside one afternoon is gone,
I'm so let down, and then I feel the sting
I feel my roughed-up spine, and feel turned on
So place those marks all over me, the fire's on

Your marks that plague my skin; please, feel free
To leave as many as you please, because
While they aren't the beauty most would like to see
When they're on me, the afterglow lasts
So much longer, once you've laid me down and put my mind at ease

So bruise my hip bones, bruise my inner thighs
Cover every side of me with scrapes, or even bites
These subtle, lasting pains will soon remind me of how you're so, so nice
Ohhh yaa take me to sexy town
Oh ya
Thats right

Bad News for Herr Müller - Part 2

SUSAN

Shoes clicking down the empty hallway, I shove my final report in the repertory, relieved. It's front-page news, tomorrow. As much of a personal aberration as it is, it feels satisfying as usual. It's been a long day; heavy was the tone, as much as I'm used to producing these sorts of evil things, these informing and misconstrued versions of the complex truth that is the daily paper.

My meeting with the guy was brief, but it was the brevity that shook me. He hadn't much to say on his feelings about what had happened, or his friend, himself, his job. He fed me straight facts I already knew, and was on his way. I was disappointed; I'd hoped for some account of emotion, his thoughts when they'd found the remains. I could've included it in my report, so as to put out at least some sort of deeper value to the story, much deserving.

What scares me the most is that nobody's going to see this for what it is. Stories like this one are only funny nightmares to people, future urban legends. Folks will read through it; they won't see a lost infant. They'll see a pile of dirty bones, which is frightening and exciting, not sad. No readers will understand the human aspect of it all. Sometimes I really believe I'm the only one who recognizes the profundity of front-page news. Coincidentally, the one who's feeding it out to the rest.

I sit in my car, abject, knees up at my chest. I push my legs out, so the steering wheel digs into my shins. I'm such a beast. If I'm so concerned with feelings, I should've become a novelist. I'll probably write some melodramatic poem later, 'A Life So Lost', I'll call it.

I start the car, thinking how easy it is to get used to feelings of guilt and depression. I really just need to get home to the apartment. There's an abalone salad in the fridge.

Bad News for Herr Müller - Part 1

FOREWORD:
This is just a short story I wrote for one of my courses last year... I got a very good mark on it, I like it, I'm proud of it. It has six parts to it and is written from the first-person perspective of three different characters. I guess that's all, ENJOY, BYE

FABIAN

I haven't got one a' these letters in ages. The new kids always shock me like somethin', not in a bad way. New ones are a piece of pie, 'cause I can easily introduce myself. I've done it a million times. Prob'ly about fifteen to twenty times, about. So, these new letters, they seem to say, "Let's talk!". I'll always accept. It's the actual talkin' that's kinda iffy and difficult. Sometimes I forget what I said in past ones, in the past; 'course, I know it's doubtful, pretty unlikely an a' these kids know more of each other, so's to compare any letters that kinda conflict what's said in each one. Then they'd notice a lie, of course, but it's highly doubtful. I doubt it'd happen. Any which way, wouldn't matter, 'cause if it happens it's two kids seein' another kid lyin'. Just a fifteen-years-old Cassie kid. Not some shrunken up, old coward; Fabian K. Müller.

I stare at the new one on dark royal blue paper, in dark royal blue pen, real hard to read. I've had nice eyes, though. Nice in quality, I mean, rather'n how they look. Not look as in "view", but they're also good that way. I already said. But I'm sayin' how they look, as in their appearance, which is nothin' you'd go to town over. Anyway, this wild, blue-on-blue letter. I make the assumption, thinkin' it's likely this kid's a bit of a joker. Likes to bob around on people with bad eyes. I don't got no bad eyes, though, and like to bob around at times, as well, so I'm thinkin' I would most likely like to read this cool letter right about now. And so goes a fake and crappy blossoming of a beautiful, new, flowery friendship.

Dear 90719,

That's my identity code that the website makes. Everyone on the website gets it, none real names. They do it to protect the partic'pants. Kids who partic'pate, they shouldn't have to be scared of a security breach. Not a security breach, no. Not the right name at all. I don't know what it'd be legally. . . what it'd be formally called if some a' these kids had their real names up there on the website, right up there 'side their address, and got stalked by internet predators, or, say, they got killed. It's possible, very possible, indeed, there's internet rapers all over that website like some dirty dogs in the town dump. I wonder, in prison, if they've got some inner'net access, or some priv'ledges like that, and if there's some fiery, old, horny raper who's on that website an' havin' pen pals from prison, an' he gets released in a proper two weeks. Or, you might say, could be some lonely, forty-one-years-old guy posin' as a fifteen year old girl. . . 'course, I'd never once hurt some kid; like, I'm not livin' out this thing for some wild an' crappy reason. Just tryin' to find out about some grown-up, random baby. This blue-on-blue one ain't it, pretty sure. Pretty sure it's a girl, is why. Most on the website are; girls get much more int'rested for things like havin' pen pals, def'nitely. This letter's got the tone of a real inquisitive young girl. I'm facin' the usual scale a' questions.

What's your name? First off, if you tell me it, I'll tell you, as well.

"Well, my young and sweet firefly, the name's Fabian. I'm one proper adult, real elderly. Please refer to me as Herr Müller."

I couldn't say that, it's obvious. I start on some sheet a' paper, just to start, answer the first question. "Cassie," I write. Feels iffy; not much, but slightly. Writin' some little tootsy name used to feel pretty creepy, almost like I wanted to use a diffren't one, like somethin' of an old soundin' name, so's to feel less iffy. Some old gal's name or, like, "Nell" or "Susan". I even did it once, whippin' up this one new letter to a new kid, and instantly regretted it. It's best tryin' to stick to one story. I was scared, kinda, after I wrote the name "Nell". The person never wrote Nell back, though. So a lucky surprise it was, not havin' to carry it on like I would'a had to.

How old are you?

"15," I write.

What's your favourite school subject?

"That would be nothing, seein's I left college for some near-dead baby. Was only busy with the crappy thing for a near month before I put the guy back where I found'm. Still couldn't face goin' back there, crappy school," I write, swishin' the pen like a crazy medieval scribe, all of the place. I didn't write on the paper, pretty obvious; I wrote about the paper, in the air, and let out some wild, silly laugh. I did feel some urges for truth. But never's truth in havin' a sneaky alias, so I write the same thing I always do, and tell'er my number one is art and my number two is scientific experiments. Next question:

What are your pastimes?

I do the air-swishin' pen thing again, cacklin' like a French pirate. I'm only makin' fun a' my own crappy self, now, "I'm a nurse. Yes, a male nurse. I work in a clinic, tests new drugs on people. 'Well, I'll be!', ya might say, 'How'd you go grabbin' some excitin' job as a male, sexy nurse, all without finishin' a proper school year?'. And I'll tell you, actually, long as we're bein' so honest. Don't need a diploma for my job. I guess I'm no nurse. I'm fixed up in a lab coat, though. S'my job surveyin' the subjects, 'pre', as well as 'post', bein' drugged. Some real 'human lab rats', if you may be so very obliged!". I put the pen down, feelin' drowsiness mixed with some other feelin's, and stand up for a healthy bedtime shower.

Quickly moving sun

When this day comes, when finally
Here is all you were wishing for, tell
Is it as wonderful as you thought it to be? As it was
Made out to be

I'll never listen to the things they say

When you've ruined their day, let down
How does it feel?
So beautiful, to let them down

Not so beautiful...

Are you at ease? And
Do you still want to
Do that strange thing you asked if we could do?

These kinds of interests change
It would be okay; my mind has wandered, too

The changes made, nowadays
Are all that can be done, to keep up
So they won't be looking back at you

Quickly take a look around,
As they move a bit further away. Without them,
Does it really matter at all, anyway?

Nothing really matters...

Don't sit; I think this place we're in
Could turn into a living hell
Would you be content to stay, then? Tell
Would you be as content as they said you could be?
Just as they are, they said

And now, their discontent
With the night is here
To feed the things inside you

I hate you

Don't resent my words
And see them as a part of the things
That grow, and grow inside

Once your rage has ruined their day,
Is yours changed?
Maybe it's really, really all the same

Take a walk at night

When day comes, and you're tired, tell
Will you protect yourself from
The sun, or open your eyes to the light
And let its rays awake you?

I hate you

I wonder how your day, it would be changed?

Every day, the sun
It rises. Can you see it? Try it
I don't think you the type who would be blinded

Every, every choice is yours
Only. Keep up, or take your look around
Or turn your gaze down, shaded from
The quickly moving sun.
Choose wisely; I don't want to see you
Lonely, lonely

If you choose to keep up, maybe
It would be best, now
Not to question how to appreciate the sunlight
And move on, quickly, through the day...

How can I appreciate each day
If I'm to follow them, close my eyes
And sleep through every night?

Losing My V-Card

Years later, it's today and still
I don't know what to tell myself, what to say
All I know is I am not the same and
That my senses still ache. Years later
After having pushed the memory away for so, so long

A long few years has passed, as I have
Numbed the aches. A memory, a story

Just my story, nothing more. I just forgot how
I was sore, deep down, with aches I put away
But those exploded right in to my bedroom today
And now, the pain is here with me
And I know how I've never been the same

What does that mean to you?

How does it sound to you?
It sounds like melodrama, all about
How it felt, when I was held under your heavy hands
The truth is, I am spent. This is a trauma
You could never understand

I still don't know what to take from all this mess
Perhaps I've learnt what evil means; I'm spent
Is it my burden to make sense
Of someone else's evil dreams? I'm trying
Now, to understand. Until I do,
Maybe you could tell me what my values mean
To you. Maybe,

You just don't understand,
Just what your empty, heavy hands were on
Maybe you've been taught that way
Maybe you're not the devil I see; You could be
The devil's spawn

That might just be melodrama, and
You just might be the devil's spawn.

Of course his child has empty hands, but
It was a human there; it was the child inside
The human girl, your empty, heavy hands were on

You have the hands without a touch.
What I don't understand, is how the touchless palms
A human isn't meant to feel, could hurt so much

How heavy are they, hanging there? I could never
Carry something, so heavy. It must be
So heavy a burden. Emptiness, you carry everywhere
With many wasted feelings.
Those once belonged to me, and so
I hope the pain their absence brings to me is matched
With what their presence brings to you, cause
What you took from me that day -- that day,
Is that a happy memory? Good times, but
What you took from me can't be returned, replaced
Or made brand new

So, what I still can't understand is
How, with as much value as you took
From me, those heavy hands of yours are still so empty.
Something that meant the world to me is now
Forever yours, and so, I'd like to know-
What does it mean to you?

What on earth? well it's the "Harper Pic Of The Day", obviously~!

Just look at his beady eyes...

The Rehabilitation of First-Time Offender, Axel Whipley

Every day, I am spat on. Every other moment or maybe more, they want my neck. They eye it as they drive. Everyone, someone my age, a kind old woman – they envision their cars driven into my back. Yesterday, a minivan, a mom, and three youths addressed me as they passed. “Criminal, and you’re going to hell!”, they screamed.

I’ve ten days to go, respectively. I take consideration of the fact that I first must be re-tried. Judge Valentine says these things are difficult to gauge. Have I learned? The system is not yet perfected. They want me changed innately by this experience, and not to the point of insanity. As far as I am concerned, it is reasonable to call what I’ve done ‘an accident’. It was not the act of a murderer. Moral, it was not. Human, yes. Anything goes when you’re a human. Typical of a human, yes. Regrettably, yes. Regrettably, I am a typical human being. In a sandwich sign, I am pushed further towards a more untypical and elevated moral standard, each afternoon. Thank u, Judge Valentine.

The memory is a surreal one. I can see the road, empty but for the mess I’d made. The girl, Elaine, bled from the neck. Elaine had been on the phone, just that moment. She had been babysitting, and this was a drive to the hospital. She had been babysitting and caught her brother in an epileptic fit. How ironic, this drive to the hospital.

The restraint belt, the cause of death; it had cut into her jugular. She was killed; Mary died later in an incubator. Jack screamed and screamed, full of life. He spat water onto a nurse in the hospital that day. At the scene, the street was silent aside from the infants, who screamed, loud, and everything was grey-on-grey, and Elaine’s old car sat still, all windows down in the early morning air. The babies screamed like cats in their sister’s misty abattoir.

I don’t know what to make of this idiot, Judge Valentine. It is thanks to him that I am not to be incarcerated, but still - his verdict came all too quickly. Elaine had been in a panic that day, and maybe drove with a single hand. I imagine this as she had been on the phone, and it is possibly that it was, in fact, Elaine who caused our fatal collision. It is possible, but I was much too drunk to have remembered.

A man spins by on a motorcycle and squints, scrutinizing. He’s reading this heavy burden that swings, ill-behaved (jus’ like me!), across my chest. I turn away, and pace as is expected. My head is low as I stare, eyes burning six feet into the ground. My crime was not that of a criminal.

Teeth -- What Teeth Mean to Me

Foreword. . . .
This is a poetic sample I wrote the other day, this is what teeth mean to me, what do teeth mean to you? Do you consider them a part of you, or are they "just a bone"? Do they ever cross your mind? As you read, I will ask that you take some time, to reflect on your own teeth! Thank you, and good night. . .

teeth-they grow as you grow
teeth-they know when you grow, and they follow you as you grow
teeth-use them as you will
teeth-we must clean them as we grow
teeth-thank you god for giving humans teeth
teeth-they will be with you for all eternity
teeth-they stay with you in the afterlife
teeth-they will still be there even after everything else has disintegrated, because they are bones

Incense Mess

It's time to clean this incense mess
I don't know how
The dust is rising fast
If I don't clean this dust from midnights passed
I'll drown in its musk and never survive
If I don't blow it away
It sits there every day, and to this day
Twenty days more, twenty days
To twenty-nine, or thirty, forty days
I'll never get out of here alive
I'll never get out of this incense mess

A never-ending heavy, something grinds
I suppose, the jaws of Life
That wake me up at night
On a very good night for an incense mess
It lifts me by my touch and taste
I see the smoke; my eyes are bright
As they watch hard embers burn to waste
And drift away with all that's left,
An incense mess

The smoke that birthed those smoky eyes,
The dust that piles until it flies
It's too much now, so much it makes you tired
Go back to sleep.
Your life's an incense mess

War Canoe

War canoe
You've nothing for me, I've been told
How could that be true?
With you, I'd fill a war canoe

Passengers
Each passenger to teach me something new

Into the bay...
Someday to paddle to the beach
Where there's a seat for two
Throw my paddle to the bay

Or give it to my love; my love waits there for me
Or tie it to a tree; it grows to shade my love
Or hold it as I lay; you're buried when you die
Or throw it to the bay

Passengers,
You travel in the shade
But it's down the trail you blaze, I'll find the truth
The war canoe goes blazing through my youth

Made without care, but with skill, the wooden spine
Weakened only by termites and time
Leave your pets up on the shore, and we'll be fine
War canoe, we'll be fine; I'll be fine, you'll be fine

You can rock the boat
You can go fast or slow, you can go both
You can go insane
You took me through a hurricane
I had to jump into the bay, and caught a cold
But the war canoe remains

War canoe
Faintly tarnished, thanks to you

Passenger
Just a passenger, and so
You need to know, the war canoe
Is not your own to pull and throw
The way these passengers often do
It's canoe abuse; I know, that is life, that is life

But it was someone else from long ago
Who first polished the boat in hurricane blue
He was thrown out to the bay
By the skin of each sharpened tooth
Out of this war canoe, and never saved
His cousin jumped out, too; that is life, that is life
Out of the war canoe two cousins made

A war canoe
A life boat, slave ship, war canoe
No motor runs as bold as you
Built for war, war canoe

Climb aboard
I suppose there may be room for more
But you must bring that along...
Bring it along to give to me

Or give it to my love; my love waits at the beach
Or tie it to a tree; it grows to shade my love
Or place it on my grave; you're buried when you die
Or throw it to the bay

Hibernation

“I’ll call the police if you do it again,” she said as she sat. She said the same thing every time, to her son. He didn’t care. He hated winter. He jumped again, and broke his legs as he landed. From the other room, his mother heard the informal sound of bones in a hall, and sighed, “You’ve done that flipping trick again, haven’t you? The flipping trick?”
“It’s the one that works,” he replied, her son. She cracked her left knuckles against the side of her face. She’d been paralyzed for years. “I’ll be skinny again this winter,” she called. “Do you have the phone near you? Who’s going to order the ambulance this time?”
It happened annually. The young man scared his mother, and left her to fend for herself; a month, or maybe two. He didn’t enjoy doing it, nor did he mind. He was more selfish than he was guilty. He sheltered himself from the trenchant winter wind.

The Love Triangle

This is a Concrete poem I had to write for my gr 12 Writer's Craft class... It looks better in the original copy, written out on paper (more triangular) but you get the basic idea. I'm sneaky thinking of a somewhat creative concept for such a simple shape I thank. . . our student teacher walked by when we were working on them and saw me drawing a triangle and made a stupid fucking face at me. She thought I didn't see but I definitely did, man she was a bitch.

I

know

that he is

mine the truth

is that she bores

him she is a constr

ictor, a boa constrictor

to him I am a bear, I am

a bird of his feather he must

think I am very vibrant and ex

citing they scrap in the halls their

relationship is held in low regard by

all she will fall she must fall at my hand

I will slap her she sucks she mothers him

she pulls him like a dog by the hand why does

he follow? he hates her I know I know that he is mine 1

1. Yes, I have been in this situation before. When I was fifteen I thought I was seeing this older guy but really he had been dating this girl(much closer to his age) for about three years. . . really he was just leading me on and using me and it went on for an entire year before I woke up smell'd the coffee and got myself a real boyfriend (and eventually recovered from the deep-cutting psychological damage, jajajaja!)...... but during that time I really did think I was quite special to him!

Dramatic Monologue

I could tell he was innocent
I could tell, well, actually
I knew. But to tell the truth, I
Sided with the rest and called this
Innocent man, innocent of murder, guilty.
The verdict was most faulty. However,
We all know (don't we?) that trial's
Rarely based on truth.

I could see him sweating, so innocent.
Guilty, guilty, guilty. I feel guilty, but
Today, I saved my ass. And it was meant to be.
How ironic, I was chosen. Jury duty; a guilty man chosen
To place his judgement on an innocent man. I am
Free. God's plan, it must have been.
In God's plan, evidence points to this man
Of innocence, while his destiny lies with sorry me.
And so by this savage judge and guilty jury, he's convicted.
Choice was up to me and what other choice
Would I make other than to convict this sweating man
For the crime that I committed?

Sarah

Gr 12 Writer's Craft assignment, originally written in the form of a Shakespearean sonnet but I edited this version a bit from the one I handed in at school



In morning and in state of ticking time,
The rack of thought falls, unsaved, from the shelf
As juvenile tries "woman", shelves on either side;
Tried woman's mouth is used to draw eyes to herself.
She strives to speak in terms profound and bold;
Scholarly, in all her unintelligence.
And at this time, her knowledge runneth old;
A gap in strength results in spew'd out nonsense.
She screams volumes to you and I, and each.
(A speech sounds well, but lacks much in it's quality)
Attempts to grab us, just beyond her reach
Feet tap twice, brains and guts are spilled for all to see.
Panic! She knows only what she's told, it seems.
Until she shuts up, we know not for what she screams!

Joke

For days and weeks;
A year, a series of love, too long
To leave me ignored, all but for hearing stories of your crash, crash and burn.

I get it. You are the butt of a joke.
I get it. You are the butt of a joke.

I'm off to see some friends of mine, you see
And I wish you well, I wish you well. And well,
I, too, would be pleased to see some of this day's sun
But dear, with you the voyage stretches far
And you have arrived so tardy

You're late to warm my hands with yours
You're late to take my heart
You're late, you are late to stretch my legs and arms

For months, a match point.
A time in which you threw about my eyes
And dear, you sure did ignore the clouds in the coffee that I made

But dear, you're late.
You ran so fast near the end. . . why are you so late?

Relieving was the final haul, just as you'd promised from day one.

Untitled#1? Need ideas????????????????/

Say there, can I have your hand?
I'm in a band with myself and I try so hard for talent
And anyway, can I have your influence?
You look like you've got some influence

You should see, how I sing along
With all the drums and strings I cannot play
You should see, I'm a show to see - sensitive, yet passive..
Meaningful, born to be
Creativity, you see
I'm a show. I'll freak you out

Creativity, you see
Creativity for miles, and
Never even done any ACID, LSD

I just smoke a bowl, casual, before I go to bed; it helps me sleep
With all the world's noise banging through my weary, early twenty-something head

Stamina, charisma, you should see
I'll freak you out, I'll freak you out, I'll freak you out
Or maybe, monsieur, you can just SIGN ME
Wanna drop out of school. Just wanna be so free, just wanna be so free..........

UNTITLED need ideas plz??????

Mind the gap
Between the outstretched hands and superfocused eyes
We can laugh, and we can lie
Just like a nation's credo meant to make us feel okay
We'll lie, and be alright

An illusion is our unit
Born into the lap of love, and who'se to feel at fault
When time comes that love is only shared,
And not a love that's one for all

Nice to meet you,
I'm your teenage cousin
I smell like soap and smoke, I speak of time and truth
I like your smile and laugh, and how you walk
And so, I love you

Nice to know you,
I'm your great niece, unremoved
I know so much about your life, I've heard more than I'd have liked
True or false, but I suppose in time, I'll know the truth
My grandfather's your twin, he plays the sax, and I love him
And so, I love you

It's been quite nice, having you around
You've done things I can't remember, and the rest I won't forget
As I've grown, my eyes have shrunken you to something I can barely see
Subject to my scrutiny, the young imagination, an undue and burning hatred
So I won't have reddened hands, I'll let this union be
And so it shall be known, how I love you

13/F/Canada

They're fairly vague
They say I'd like to leave, possibly in search of peace
Maybe there's much, yet, to know and understand
I think I'd like to do something for someone else; however
I'm too young I bet, never read a newspaper
I'll let you know soon. But I mean, I'm thirteen
We've got forever:)

Last night I heard a story
Someone's life, I thought
A crooked map, I thought I'd understood
I was unsure, but shaken for a while
My dream, a nightmare
Just a thought, and still I thought I'd die*sigh

Are you dead? I thought I'd heard
And well, it's tough here too

Today, I'd just left class
Today I saw a crash with my own eyes
Tonight, I took a shower and I couldn't help but cry
I've got bruises running down my shins and thighs
They're from the sidewalk's ice
I was drunk and fell, and I was laughing then
But now, I can't help feeling sorry for myself:(

I don't believe this is a crime
I don't believe myself a child, with much a price to pay
I've never done much wrong, and all that's asked
And still they take away my hard-earned keepings
They must have thought I was asleep, a nap
Another need
I'll fight for almost everything, my keepings
It's my right:@

And well, I know you'd do the same
If only for something small, I'm sure I know you would
I thought I'd seen you somewhere, briefly
Overlooking something that was yours
A weak defense you were, I wondered if you would succeed :/(?)

But I digress,
As I'm responsible only for myself, thirteen
No longer needed here
No longer to be seen and heard, but I'll be ready in some time
Because I thought I'd heard, you've been unwell
I was unsure, but shaken for awhile
From what I thought I'd heard, unsure
So here, it's safe to say that only time will tell

The Earth's Cure, Chased

The sickest son of here
The earth's cure chased
He's shaken and run along the land
Traveled far, and kept inside a case

He's left his base, a mess it is

A base on which to find no free foundation
And so, he shakes it into nothing/kein/none
And shakes himself away

You're so wreckless; fly
Wander to where we've known but never tried before
To see

Keep capital at reach, but not at rest
To keep what has been done and found,
The town as a return address

Here,

Those who walk are left themselves impaired
Detached from what should be
But what has been?

So, I guess, just let them be, let pseudors lead the way
And further falters grow; they let them

With blind eyes, they must listen
For to be told what can be seen
And further seen

Further,
So further told that they themselves
Are likely to be seen

So come one, come all
Turn here your eyes (and, naturally, to the right)
Climb over one another, climb with a goal
And at your final reach
You will be told of what you have
Together, you have brought anew.

Oh yeah, come one, come all
Climb over one another
Climb with a goal