Designer: Manikka
Resources: 1 2 3

None of this is me. These aren't my words. They haven't been, for ages.
Why? Because nothing's been right..and that's gotta change.

I miss my words..my real words -regardless of whether they sounded like a silly little schoolgirl's words, for as long as they were this silly little schoolgirl's words.

I've just gotta get out of here
|

What makes everyone else simply part of the world is that they can't see beyond their own stories. Every piece of information is relative..subject to their past experiences, comparable to their own norms. By the world's standards, the most miniscule things are rightly blown out of proportion. By their standards, a rose holds all the beauty imaginable; a star gives off all the light conceivable; a cut that scars is a pain all too great to bear.

But in this light, a rose is just another plant bound to wither and rot with the rest of the day's garbage, and star is another satellite merely defined by the darkness surrounding it..because, in this light -in this World, we've learned to detach completely from mangled flesh and broken bones.

The point is that nobody else has to understand (:
|

All it took was that one, irreversible mistake.
|

I warned you not to come too close: I told you to cover your ears. I tried so hard to keep them covered, for you..or, at the very least, to limit what they had to hear -to control what your mind had to misconstrue, and whatever it is you had to feel..a little too much from someone who wasn't enough.

No time to write. No right to write. Right? Right.
|

Don't come too close. Cover your ears. The most dangerous part is the sweetness of it all; the way those words, which fool you like a fucking mirage of an oasis, are just endless waves of sand that are bound to come crashing down. Never fall in love with a shadow of a writer.
|

It shouldn't be this easy. Things shouldn't be this hard. It should start like a heart on electricity. It should come without the need for incentive


|

People say that they've been there and back, when something in me just knows that true maturity must realize that we're all struggling on the same damn plane, regardless of age or experience.

It's not about what you've heard or seen, or how much of the world you've been exposed to, and it's not even about how you've taken all that in and how you've picked every tiny detail of this dysfunctional little paraiso, out. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: it's about who you are..and I may not be all that proud of who I am..but I am proud of who I am trying to be (and, in retrospect, the mere that I'm "trying", makes me proud of who I am, as well)

I am not just another bleep on the radar -I refuse to be,
I am more than a sigh, or a whispered curse
-or a thousand curses on society and conformity:
I, in all my lack of years, am out to be a voice of change.
I, in all my lack of true knowledge, am out to use whatever smarts I've got
(booksmarts or what have you),
not to criticize the illusions imposed upon us by those damn institutions,
but to break through those notions, to see past the smoke and mirrors.

You -and anyone else, can say what you want about what I lack and what I shouldn't say (or what I don't have the right to say, just yet)..we know the truth. I haven't the time to waste on that Real World..I'd much rather work for some happiness in the world I've got.
|

I want out of my head and all its little quirks. I want out of how it goes stomping around my insides; flaunting the authority it's got over the blood in my veins, the heart in my chest cavity and the trigger over that numbing sensation.

And the minute it's done rationalizing everything, all there is to realize is that I'm stuck. I want out of my head. I want out of this skin. I want a clear stream of tears out of this flesh and away from the migraines..but those tears never come: something in my head says that they have no right, or reason, to.

Stop dictating my moods. Get out of my head. Somebody get me out of my head and away from those promises I've yet to make, again..promises I, for one, might never make again.
|

|