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Stuck_in_Vain
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Name: Lily
Gender: Female
Interests: Listen to music-
Think-
Imagine things far from reality-
be sad-
be happy-
laugh-
Love-
go to walters with goodspeeds-
have deep conversations-
say words that flow from my oral cavity
(aka-make fun of mrs.fabbie)--
act-
sing (shhh)-
not dance-
fashion-
Listen to music.
Expertise: Drawing, acting, playing viola, and cello if im in the mood.
I love music. Nowadays ill be listening to-
Neil Young
Smahing pumpkins
The cardigans
Crosby Stills Nash and Young
Led Zeppelin
Laura Veirs
Pink Floyd
Iron and wine
The Greatful dead
Rogue Wave
Bob Marley
Interpol
Belle and Sebastien
Ben Folds (and his five, which is really three)
Ben Kweller
The Cardigans
The Flaming Lips
Radiohead
Red hot Chilli Peppers
Not in any order, Not even beginning to sum it all up.
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Art
Message: message me
Member Since:
12/24/2005
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| Ha.
So I waited, I stayed with him. Seriously- I did. And now, I am the inaudible spec that is whipped by a knife...the handler unknowingly possesing a serious urge. Die young. The concept is too brutal, but I have no options. A single woman forever, 9 cats, a t.v. with no cable, and chocolates adorning my frilly little home. I am lost without hope. Maybe if I run from here, I'll make it to where i know truth. In any sense, would it be as it presents itself? Or all they all lies? In the end, I will run. Into the horizon, and melt with the sun. | | |
| im not even sad im just...
angry.
but, really angry. i want to smash a viola. i want to choke a skank or becky with the nipple rings shes pretty much the same thing comsi comsa motherfuckers
i only like niki
were out of our gords. i never fully absorbed how fucking crazy we both are. were fucking NUTZ. ill. but straightjacket,not ghetto prom queen.
i hate everything
and i need to smash something or fight with someone i dont know how to get it the fuck out its like a ball of shit and im gonna fucking set myself onfire.
theres an idea.
ETERNAL SLEEP.
haha i keep a suicidal web diary, thats kinda gay.
jim did it, why cant i? they didnt understand his writing, his idea, his mindset, his lack of sobriety as a means for creativity. I love jim. I know i do, i did i will. Hell, i think i am him sometimes. theres something so fucking subtle in our writing that just fucking clicks like a double helix. not his rambling rambles and my jabbers, but the poetry. the sadness. the inneffective usage of "you", because hell- we arent directing at any specific motherfucker. you write to write, and those colors and vibes that you feel, you make them audible/dechipherable for a propper fucking square. His ego. he reminds me of my father, fucking arrogaant talent. in some ways i dont give a fuck. but its what is molding me and hell if im going to be that arrogant pissy fuck that tells you to clean my toe lint fungi patch. i hate everything, and i dont fucking care if you think im "emo". i wil rip your asshole/opinions out of your lower bodily area and fucking shove them in a paper shredder, because fuck you, besides ignorance, there is reality. I chose reality and maybe that means in some ways im fucked over into neo libertarian status, but fuck you optimistic no good shits if youre going to try and demean me. Oh what a slut oh shes weird shes loud shes crazy shes wild Fuck you, because you know what, I am motherfucking wild. I am a beast let out of a fucking cage, a bear awoken too early from hybernation with really bad gas...IM PISSED. i dont like you cheeky fucks in my highschool, and osama shouldve just bombed your asses you fucking cunts.
thanks.
bye. | | |
| blahblahblah corruption honkhonk defensive driver.
I love this.
you touch this little slice of bullshit 30 second perfection, and you just sit with it, like a block of ice. i love the way your eyes intensify in the middle, you believe 15 seconds are already gone. so there is nothing negative to be had. and then it runs like quicksand and slips out of grasp, making you believe you failed to keep it, when in reality there is no stopping it.
i hate being timed.
oh well, I'm already long gone. | | |
| No surprises
i wonder if hearts work like quilts. Stitched sophmorically along a thin thread prone to tear and fray.
i was asked today how much prozac i needed
truly, name me a dosage for this. because i am blind to any such thing in exsistence. | | |
| i hate wind.
no sweater and so much wind. such torture that i despise.
few see through the keyhole of depression. none through my bleeding sockets of sight. a comparison? i have none. it is a void that is filled rarely, but when full it blooms into a dense heart, beating for such a strong moment.
and then,
it just stops. as any death would bring upon any heart, it stops. rotten, cold. my bones are jagged but feel no remorse for the actions theyve committed. they are heavy rocks on the shore. feet are sliced on them, bleeding insistantly. they are covered with disgust.
and yet,
if we cleaned polished and buffed them for once- i think they have potential. to make right what i have made so utterly wrong and harmful. to coax them into a soft demise.
oh how i dream
in my time waiting to succeed. | | |
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