Ihze

 BAM! like it was when i wrote these words last, only sick, sick, sick and sad. shattering   pain and suffering, like a million little daggers burying deep in my chest just look at that look at that, the calm, happy look how lucky he must be, how lucky he must be to be over me. I keep thinking I am, constantly  testing, testing not now, not then, maybe not even tomorrow, but i'd like to be. Then I might replace the nausea with euphoria the lump with a jump and a little bit of something worth while.

I kind of love you. I mean I do, but not in the way that I used to. I'm mad, and jealous, and spiteful. There's you there, and her here, and a whole lot of other people. Do I want that? I don't think so. There's hurt and sad and mellow. But when I don't see you here, and her there, and all those other people, When it's just me and my thoughts, or you and me, I'm happy. I like me. I like my life. I sometimes like my choices. I see what I've done and I regret it sometimes: when I see you there, and her there and those other people. but I see that all will be right if I still get me and my thoughts or you and me just talking, t

J'n'sais pas ce que c'est, cette vie mysterieuse, Sans sense, signification, éloquance. Pourquoi sommes-nous vivants? La langue la plus belle du monde, Celle d'un philosophe, penché sur un papier L'importence c'est le mariage? J'éspere que non. Le sexe? L'intrigue? L'ambiguité? J'ai une idée, pendant que tu te pend, pendant que tu te perd, (L'aquiescence, voulant que tu te trouve comme mauvaise humain,) Ne pense pas à moi, parsque même que tu voit ton vrai visage, ta vraie caractère.... J'ai perdu le bout de ma vie, mon amour, les lignes qui se crosent entre eux. Mes souhaits, les souve

and it always comes at times like these when the sun is out and god's turned the heat up ~ but, you know it has nothing to do with the weather ~ and you don't like metaphors when you don't want games and people are in your buisiness ~ but, you can't tell them, and you can't tell him ~ and, most of all, you can't tell yourself because you're out of control ~ and you don't want to be because you have some problems ~ and they're left unsolved because you feel like you'll never get hold of them ~ and there's nothing to do but stop worrying ~ and wait

No, i don't feel like poetry i feel like vague wording i feel like being deep and weird ~ i don't want rhymes or strange melodies i don't want happiness when you hear it ~ i don't want it to come out fluidly like some sort of water rushing forth ~ and i'd rather it portrayed a side of me that is more important than the song itself

I walk with an old friend, Through the rain, With the ducks. ~ I turn my head To ask him the names of trees, But he has chosen To walk silently.

I'm so in the dark, and I don't want to be. it makes my heart race and burn… can't you just explain what is happening around me so that I can finally get some peace?