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Drink to the bottomIt's empty in this room.
Like the bottle at my feet.
It's empty in your heart.
Like the bottle on the floor.
It's empty in the world
Like the bottle at my lips.
There's no marrow to these bones.
No life to this living.
No truth to this honesty.
It's cold in this stuffy room.
There's frost on these burning hearts.
Passion without love, and love without life.
Just drink to the bottom....
And never get up.
StitchingThe dawn is breaking
A light shining through
But sooner or later it's over
I just don't want to miss you tonight
There is so much I could tell you,
So much I can say.
What if it was paradise
what if we were symphonies
And if you need my everything
You can take it all and more
I just wish that I could hold you
and tell you it's allright
Open up your mind and then open up your heart
Show me how you feel
More than ever baby
I just can't walk off the buzz
Collegiate CarousingSweat Sweat Sweat.
It's time to get it on.
Twist turn dodge run.
Just go around and mingle.
Heat, stick, sickly sweet.
Press in, press close, man up.
Talk, turn, drink a bit
Bodies twisting, bodies turning, bodies mingle
Liquid courage, hazed perception.
Free love, pickless pickiness.
Time to get it on.
Touch, tingle, tempt, tease.
My roommate's out tonight.
Step, stroke, entwine, beckon.
Rides are leaving, private parties are beginning.
My place, your place, soon.
Calm tension, wait.
Walk, talk, kiss.
Bed, floor, left, top, bottom, right.
Charming, strange, loveless, soulful.
Loud, quiet, wicked, wild.
The silent sounds of the party child.
Yesterday... UniverseI walked yesterday,
Walked right up to the very universe.
And I asked it...
I asked it if it hated me.
It looked down.
Way down from all knowing heights.
Says that, I am what I am.
Says that, I do what I do.
You must take me as I come.
And as you change I change.
You dictate my existance.
You dictate my life.
If you are hated my me,
You are hated by yourself.
I change because you change.
I Love because you Love.
And I Hate because you Hate.
Let go of me, and embrace yourself.
And as you embrace yourself. realize...
You are embracing me.
Harlequin RomanceBreathe... these minigun emotions of child hood surviving into denim masses of conformity leaving the fold of the world to step into the grey light.
Freedom a fallacy existing only in the broken bloodied desolate minds of the digital lovers.
The computer romantics have broken the strict lines of blue telecommunication.
Walking from the flushing toilet vortex to the next and more pathetic single serving of life.
Trapped inside of this boy I scream dying to be freedom.
I am man.
I am boy.
I scream in this pool table of violence and bet on another 8-ball corner pocket
Desert desserts and spring salads dance before the starving anorexic as ung-dly reminders of her own cage, her own control.
Love this many colors and fetid in its breath chokes all those wh
Modern American GothicaTick, the hands on the antique grandfather clock creak as the minute hand moves one mark to the right, the pendulum has completed its sixetyith swing. Tock, the seconds slide by as the hand crafted wood resonates with an old yet menacing tone. Spreading slowly over the floor of the house it happens upon a boy, staring terror striken at his cereal. A cockroach is in the process of extricating itself from bits of cereal. Tick, the cockroach grows ever closer to the edge of the bowl as the clock spreads past. Out and into the garage where a cars engine produces a miniature whine as the fumes slowly fill the garage. Escape was the only option and there is no terror, only a quietly screaming resignation. Tock, up the walls it slithers and invades the room where the beautiful blonde girl with piercing blue diamond eyes stares into the bureau mirror, and sees a distorted image in return. This moment she's thinking about going to the bathroom, again, there she'll rid herself of that imagined f
The Lover's HeartIt's on the floor. Still beating, a throb of love and aguish, and hushed for eternity. The sticky red sap that has oozed around it slowly hardens as the air surrounds it. He stands above himself, with his hands covered in the red nectar of life, and he smiles, no more feelings for him, no more shall he be weak, and no more shall he be haunted by fears and doubts. He goes into his kitchen, looks up and to his right and opens the third cabinet. The falimar creak of an hinge needs oil. Inside is a jar, just the right size for a heart, with a lid that will screw down tigtly to prevent its excape. He reaches up and notices that he got a red smude on the handle of the cabinet, absent mindely he reminds himself to clean that off later. The jar slids comfortably into the crook of his left arm as he spins on his heel and retreats back to the foyer. He picks up the glistening organ, and gingerly lays it on the bottom of the jar, removes his hand and tightly screws down the lid. Tweleve steps to
I don't...think...is that?I don't know what makes you think you know me,
I don't know what makes you think you have me figured out.
You never will if you keep this up.
You can't classify me the way that you want.
You can't toss me into just one shallow pool of stereotype.
You can't pretend that it truly describes who I am.
Is that why you don't give me a chance?
Is that why I'm so disposable?
Are you afraid of who I am?
Afraid that I've been enough places to help?
Been enough places to have felt the hurt?
Is it your independance?
Is that what makes you so beautiful....
Is that why you confuse me so much?
Is that why...
you're like me....
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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