Experience The Scenic Route

It's an over used saying with a rift that sounds like happiness, pampered happiness that is. What is so scenic about the route you experience? The scene has long and gone and nature is a novelty and the regurgitated experience you are apart of, the experience for which you take part in is beautiful isn't it, beautiful like plastic. Experience this disco. This flesh. This life. This piece of experience is not a route because taking yours got me no where. No experience, no scene. I saw nothing and hoped for more and its all a little mundane, don't you think. I dare you to move. Move. I dare you to make a sound, for your own sound... Well it all sounds all too familiar. I love your dress, it looks exactly like that one I saw, that one I saw that girl wearing, I mean she had two tone shoes on so it was much more flattering. Flattering than your flat landscape of chivalry? I do give you some admiration towards what you've started. It takes guts. It takes dedication. And it takes a love, a certain kind of love for yourself and for what your doing and you really have started to believe in something, yourself even, you've grown this back bone for you and your pen and for that I am a little half smiled for the efforts you've actually put forth. I don't wish you luck because its not that type of celebration, nor am I celebrating for your mild curiosity in the power of the keyboard but I do notice. I noticed this Experience your interested in portraying, I hope it gets a little more scenic though. Go ahead. Experience this scenic route of subroutine love with a flourished bloom of status quo and melancholy. You sure have got a route there, an experience - I'm not convinced and the scene your thinking of is much different then the fairy tell you've got from write to wrong. Speak up would you, this isn't like the fall it doesn't come and go and if you're here then do it, do something already.. I'm so use to the nothing that this might just surprise somebody. experience this experience for it is quite experiential and it's cool if your testing the water, the water that has long evaporated from your scene. your scene of drama and drama and nicely dressed drama and all done up drama, and the drama your surrounded by is the drama you want to be surrounded by, but maybe that's it.. this is the experience of the scenic route, towards a scene your already apart of, nothing new, and an experience your already experiencing. i don't expect anything new and exciting for this experience of a route so often traveled. This is an experience i've left, a route i've burned down, an ugly scene and i do love some pampered suburanized ugly... show me the route! the experience! the scene!

The Collapse of Mechanical Pieces

Upsetting the sky, I’m breaking up with the time and I can finally breathe without the ticking time bomb of all that is irrelevant pulling me into a state of relevancy. Freedom, obtainable and lovable but so feared. Fear, scary and rushed but ultimately empowering. Power. I have the strength and the sky is reaching down to me here, in the dirt, with a handful of stars and a lipstick smear of the most excellent shade finally I am blushing with escaping moments of everything that had me frightened. The shackles are now a modern affair of couture that I will wear like a cross, and not for faith or for this Gothic apparel flare but for the ever reminder of what I am no longer apart of. Breathing. The rise and fall of my clothing to remind me of the mechanics that are inside of be, that make me up and build me up and I am this machine of live. A production of instrumental activities; the blink of an eye playing fluttering sounds to my symphonies, and heart strings I am pulling, a selfish notion creating hiccups of questions to an imaginative playground and footsteps become the percussion of all the little voices who encouraged and discouraged. A human aspect to a less human place where there is a sudden enlightenment, not enlightening anything, actually weighing done the whole existence of whatever is existing. Stop merely existing and live. Live this life for whatever is to come when the darkness closes in might be merely a reboot or perhaps that is all. Curtain closed. No applaud. No laughter. No encore. The collapse of mechanical pieces and the final beep of electronic existence.

We Hear Your Heart A Spinnin'

The sudden miss, like a skip my turn, keep you closer, close the door and throw away the clocks, addressing envelopes to myself and putting pieces of you inside so I'm never without. The distance not so much a troublesome because your ambition kisses me from miles away, sleeping comfortable with the ipod because that's the way you continue to talk to me. Applauding you from my side of the pond - lilly pads under construction resulting in the anchor that has me here, tied to shore, humming melodies that tie balloons to your soles and keep you, your rock of rock and roll abilities, your a fallen star of some sort, landed over there, as if the airplanes can't decide where your talent will be loved the most because all the hearts in the world are beating for your symphonies and I keep hitting repeat. Smile as bright as glow sticks, your glow is brighter than those glow sticks. Missing bus stops to listen to you longer... Electronic conversations that I always give in, requesting you in places where they know your name but to drop the track just wouldn't mean the same things and to miss you from here but to hear you from here... Its worth the waits, your always leaving these fantastic pieces of you wherever you go and we miss you so bold and so brave, and we hear your heart a spinnin'.

Different Different Different

a different kind of clean with speckled adolescent flair. a different kind of deviancy to violate your hair. a different kind of vision, a different kind of scene. a different kind of moment, a different kind of gleam. a different kind of this, and a different kind of that. a different kind of time, there won't be none of that. a different kind of elevation, a different kind of song, a different kind of lyrics... a different kind of wrong. a different way of thinking, a different way to see, a different kind of different, a different you and me. a different kind of drink, with all the fixings, a different kind of appetite, with just the right of mixing. a different kind of shoes, with a different kind of soul, a different kind of atmosphere, a different kind of wrong. a different kind of feeling and a different kind of melody. a different kind of angry, a different kind of fear, a different kind of embarrassment a different kind of want, a wanting different something different, a different kind of place and a different kind of god, a different kind of saving and a different kind of spending and a different kind of fix and a different kind of crave, a different kind of moment and a different kind of insanity. and a different kind of a prosperity and a different kind of rich, a different kind of mood with an ultra violet flip. a different kind of heel and a different kind of heal, a different kind of sex appeal. a different kind of look and a different kind of haunt, a different kind of trick or treat, a different kind of flaunt. different different different different.

Crumpled

The crumpled leaves blow across this street like pieces of paper, once attempted letters to people we loved. The breeze chills me to the bone. I can feel its burden in my feet, making this tragedy hard to speak. The moon is giving off a good light, a light that has me slightly mesmerized and enchanted stream pointing far off in this scene and I might be past the point of no return. To return those crumpled letters that have fallen off the trees, like leaves, to their owners like library books without the fees, for they are long overdue you see. And the shadows that have suddenly engulfed me, must be dancing with this breeze because they are moving all the same. The stars, usually so far, seem to be closer to my head tonight for their heat has got me bewitched and the witching hour that causes sweat doesn't bother me tonight, but the headlights of a distant item, casting sounds like rusty swings, has be captivated by the moon to pick up those leaves, and read their letters. The lovers, they do howl, for their letters are astray; on rooftops, streets and lawns you see, they are searching for a way. But that is what they'll try to do. Fall and fall and fall again, for tis the season to be falling in and out of the way.

Nonverbal, Best Plan

biting the lip until it bleeds, stabilizing the conjured structure of the very language that allows you to breathe. desperately hoping for the change, but too many lives have encountered yours, asking things… telling things… forgetting things you want to forget. the continuous struggle of self vs. self and self vs. you and self vs. self vs. you… a tribute to the words you wish you could’ve said but didn’t say and want to say and want to scream, the things you want to say. there must be a place, somewhere, perhaps a black hole of words and things and ideas of things I didn’t say, wanted to say, want to scream, a grave yard of all the things I wanted to say; not just to you but to you and you and you and you and the one you know and the one we use to know and them and her and him and it and it and you and that and them and this and all the things I wanted to say have gone to this graveyard to die, and it’s full of all the verbal death I have once wanted to say. they don’t always go there though, and sometimes not immediately, sometimes the things I want to say they build and build and build until I can feel them right at my esophagus, I almost choke to keep them down, and sometimes the things I want to say simmer on my skin and I can feel the prick of it’s heat burning me inside and out and I just let it happen, carry around the burn and not say anything, never wishing it away just wearing it away and when I suddenly don’t realize it’s intensity anymore that’s when I know its long gone and left me and died and is off in the black hole of a verbal graveyard I have out there somewhere, and sometimes when it rains and when the right conversation strikes I want to say these things and I cannot find my discarded words so I sit in silence or make up new things to say in their place, or if the rain is just right and the conversation is to a desirable flame I see the words fall on to my clothes with the lightness of a raindrop and sometimes I absorb it and spill it out and then I wish I was dead, wish I could just die and lay nicely in my verbal graveyard, it doesn’t happen much. the verbal graveyard must be under a nice heavy lock and key and it’s grave keeper must know me all too well because to not give me a map might be it’s most nonverbal best plan.

Soundtrack of the Rain

As if the raindrops have voices, they are all screaming, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!" Dancing on your shoulders like fear, bullying you into something much more severe, but you keep a blind man's ear to the raindrops and listen to them scream, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!" Blinking through the blinding stains, as if your looking through dirty window panes and as if your feeling subsequent pain it is fully ironic that you're sharing your eyes with an inanimate objected labelled with the heavy feeling of the beating rain, all the while it's screaming into your eye lashes, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!" Shielding all of the most intimate things because somehow the rain can drive them out, and hoping something doesn’t slip out of your trench coat doused in weather, to squeak and shimmy on beautiful pebbles and slip and fall and bump your head, the old man will still be snoring while the rain is screaming, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!" the cars are screeching from near and far causing you to stay in your bed, soggy puddles of ideas form on the floor, tripping you up on bath robe hope, searching for comfort food in a weathery daze and were does the sun go when it decides it is allowed to rain, wondering, while listening to the soundtrack of the rain, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!"

The Language Is Changing

a president feeling of bliss with the grip of well worn shoes looking almost brand new electrified to go. and instant effect, like the best cocaine, or a more literal approach, caffeine. a rippling pulse, from a more mechanical dream, fuelling dreams and growing pots of love in handbags stowed away for next season. things are changing, evidently, and we cant help but claw at the glimpses of strangers passing us by on busy streets for their minds contain fragments of us, fragments and pixels and tiny actualities that on any given Sunday, you would steal back. planning an attack, but suddenly out of whack, you let the strangers wander into crowds of blurred faces because they will forever remember you, better then you will ever remember yourself because the language is changing, just like the seasons, this you doesn't last under the falling leaves of autumn and your bones would merely break if seduced into old winters clutching calloused grip, and the rain washes you out each and every spring but with perfect measure so you can become a tidied hot mess for the summer sun, so it can cast a different shade of love on your clothes and allow a new peep hole for your soul to blossom at untimely places for all the wrong people.

Pleasure Me This

The idealistic pleasure of the teasing breathing parts that have lungs grasping for air. The sexual current, an electricity for the masses, has begun a pent up concoction within the very mouth of being filthy. The game of twister with garments and words all building up and shaking down through the body of extreme desire. Bumpy road, you riding it? Smooth sailing and no fun was ever had without the rough seas for all the world to see the quick quake of a pleasure craft. Pleasure me this, magnetic ideas clinging to the zippers on my pants, if I were wearing any pants, so they cling to the nylon of the night and the depriving swarm of this sexual energy has got us grabbing out for red bulls and cigarettes to keep our hands and mouth busy on the idea of our hands and mouth busy on you. The electric feel of the ideas the mind is piecing together quickly and the sexual involvement that has surrounded my clothing has got me naked. Naked lunch? The time for naked is now. The injection of a physical drug, got us junkies feelin' freaky and with a little more bass there would be trouble. Wants become sugar coated into beautiful attributes but who can we kid when all we want to do is get our kicks. The hopscotch game of naked. And keeping this sex to the cost of a verbal affair is really fucking me huh. The ironic actions of a verbal frenzy contorting everything that appeared to be oh so fitting. You'd fit me perfectly. The excess is good. The hope towards not seeing and ignoring the foolishness of all that is fooling the fun out of this. Pleasure me this, won't you?

Love Burn Rush Breathe Bubble

the interesting actions of eyes. streaming conversation from a whole other language, from a whole other dictionary of verbs and nouns and adjectives and places that your not sure exist but they all look dazzling. such a state of piercing interaction happening. you watch it slow and steady, trying to highlight the importance in everything that is conjuring up and dancing about. sledge hammering wonder, swimming around like fishes and butterflies inside a skull of worries. dressing up curiosity with a semi sauntering idealism that keeps catching on your lips while you try to harbour all your blossoming fantasies inside the lining of your best clothes. wearing them on the town, not caring about the faces who try to pry open the seems with all they've got, really talking, expensive talk leaving cheap stains on the abundance of crushes you've collected and examined and swiftly left in other places so no one would mention the potential of it all. candle light entourage and a night to remember, watching everything we love burn and rush and breathe and bubble; watching everyone we know, love and burn and rush and breathe and bubble.

Is Your Heart Broken, Like A Sweater

Was it the ice cube that cracked the ship or was it all the emotions aboard? People forever feeling things, forever such a long time. Is it the tears that dampen the tissue used to soak up the feelings or is that wetness coming from the intensity of the action that is causing the people to erupt like a volcano into an atmosphere of change. Is it the action of feet walking over and through fires that indeed make them sore, or the constant thought of moving forward, the strain on the entire body… pushing those feet in new directions that indeed bring on the actuality of it’s pain. Do our hearts break? Is there a moment we were feel a crack right in half, does the rest of our body send blood or empathy to the heart to relieve it of this pain, is their a heartbreak doctor, we call, not a soulful singer but is there an actual license to fixing a broken heart. Have we compared our heart to something that breaks, but what exactly… everything can break; glass, rocks, houses, noses, feet, and sweaters. Is your heart broken like a sweater, thread slowing fraying, one by one? Is your heart broken like a nose, all bloody and twisted, all black and blue? Is your heart broken like a toaster; in fact is your heart toast? Kaput. The quality of emotion flooding parts of the mind, leaving it dry and blank. The irony of the impact of words to the surface, creeping into the depths of places you didn’t realize could be reached. The moves people are waiting to play in a game you weren’t prepared for. The rule book in the fire, everything goes, no uniform required. You’ve got to be committed, they’ll take you for all you’ve got and by the looks of it, you don’t have much to lose.

The Brutality of Your Friendship

The brutality of your friendship, imprisoning those all around you. You are such a waste of space. Time is ripping itself off the clock, one solitary second as each flick of the second hand is slicing into its own wrist. Suicide. You are friendship suicide. Voluntary of course, but you sucker them in. you make it so easy don’t you, that is your plan right, your shifty and worthless and entirely demeaning. Sometimes I think people only board that ship to really help you out, what they don’t realize is that you are plotting and planning to make yourself look ultra violet so this is your plan of attack. The words you spit are all ploys and decoys and easily spin your vocabulary like ugly spiders spin their webs and you are eating them you, your friends, one by one, all alive and suffering… this is your favourite part, to watch them squirm. Climbing in and out of their beds, smooth sailing – for you of, yes.. because that is all you ever think about, you and your makeshift friendships in your make-believe world, when will you grow up – sadly I wish it was all you’re fault but these people are dancing around you, fixated on the better of you, the hope of the better, optimistic fraudulence all neglecting and playing with these people’s emotions. Pitiful and grasperated, looking away to rush to your side, rushing to your side to look away, you’re shady. When your monarchy falls and they attack you and bring you down, we will throw a party and you won’t be invited, your ID doesn’t work here.. we don’t know you, your identification is a scam because you are a scam at life, this is a game and you don’t know how to play. we're sippin' coffee and getting jittery off the memories of you, the filth that remains in our minds of you.

A Bend in the Truth, Still Lies.

an action followed by a reaction, coming together with a sense of urgency. the urgency of stability coming through a wave length of compassion that doesn't exist. a trivial feeling of need washing over an even heavier feeling of grief, I've suddenly realized things I cannot tell you. an exuberance of everything blending towards a junction of saucy bureaus and ink smudges on winning tickets and sealed but, unaddressed letters and soft served ice cream in this hard hard world. a tactful leverage on the simplistic things, dipped into hate and served on the rocks. a bend in the truth, still lies. we lie with the trust and yet still hide, in the shadows of what we want and do we ever have it, but we'll tell you different to keep our pockets full and our hands busy. busy with what we want and no where close to cutting knots, creating new ones to keep everything uneasy. funny how the jokes aren't funny anymore and the cants/wonts/donts are the yes yes yes of what we've ran out of, suddenly where our no no nos are rooted from. neon signs show the vacancies of our hearts yet snap off when we get together. uncanny the relevance of the light bulb yet we choose to admit and dismiss it for the happy birthday hours of beautiful things and tender eyes in exchange for days of hiccups and heart punches, one up - video game swag like we're kids and nothing can touch us. but we can feel it, the touch of the axe, we're creating something to a certain point and then we realize a limitation, an obstacle we won't move so we exit and start again, always ending up to that exact same moment. treading on nothing with no treads, without a thought until the thoughts break the surface and all we can do is think think think about the actions and the feelings and a tangled messed this has turned out to be, at a time when we were so certain this is where we would not be. heavy heart, needs to lighten up.. valuables need not to stray for the serpent tongue of fantastic nanoseconds leaving you sea sick for days. the chemical, that one that links your heart and brain together so with every beat a thought is forced into your mind and you swallow it's importance because now is not the time for importance, for the matters of heart and mind battle are no match for the actions causing reactions. we are reacting in the best of worst times.

Plant vs. Popularity

the steady sacrifice of your mind to the turmoil of the gathering errors colliding with good behavior in and amongst a mood ring changed colour of hypocrisy and deviant love. a powerful feeling of elongated hope, inspiring childish limbs to act like adults and strike feeling into places with discarded selfishness and boiling emotions. an easy action of perpetual devotion to a subversive audience and unaccountable deliveries of fumes have hazardly endangering a scenery you've longed to have cluttered. a filterless mirage of pure and impure words audible to the skin and touching the pulse that links the world in one giant satisfying sigh. the fiery grief of an alliance turned bad and the bad continuing to roll and collect a raging few and creating a voice, that same voice telling stories and spinning webs, catching all the spiders in their tracks, tracks we all follow, and throw in other directions. watching disaster on repeat all the while when we sleep, peace falls to a place between our hearts so we can rise and demise in a growing trait of self hate. a seedless plantation in a garden of opinions, adapting to its neighbor, a struggle of the plant and the popularity.

Between The Baseline And The Silence

To define the definition of the cracking sound your life makes in the middle of a crowd between the baseline and the silence. The drop of a drink causing a back splash of empathy towards the subject who is dying for company. Batting eyelashes in all directions, not tipsy, but walking a little crooked from this unnatural sort of events, and the source, who is documenting your plummet this evening will not show the beginning, a beginning of bedazzled calm and heart felt laughs, the ones that erupt deep inside the soul, where most laughs are kept. The break of everything. A heel… a nail… a heart… the break in the silence of a crowd between the baseline and the silence. Listening closely for they cant get their mouths off you, the lips are full of yous, pulling and pushing, a verbal tug-o-war on the things that build you up and break you down and their trying sweetie, they are trying to really break you down tonight. The love for a hot mess production in the gloomy setting of banging baseboards and you’ve stumbled to a no mans land beautiful and this is just the beginning to your end, and they had thought you ended a long time ago, but that voice, that nagging little voice that floats along the baseline has got it’s teeth in you and you really taste good because it’s beginning to sink to all new levels and it’s not leaving, not going anywhere, no exist in sight, and you’ll try to laugh it off because there in between the baseline and the silence your loving the loving off you’re getting and your so off, so far off.

Forgetting the Age of the Company Around You

A playground filled with adult things; brief cases, lust and confidence. A jungle gym tangled up with deceit, embrace, and kisses. The forewarned actions of the ones you trust, trusted, and the ones you wish you could. An abandoned fate of actuality washing over flower beds with planted hate. An abundance of emotion all mixed around like milkshakes on a summer day, the associated acclamation of the ones you want to stay and the ones you want to send away. A party filled with just the right amount of truth and just the right amount of fun. Loot bags filled with party favors, of a different sort. Silently spilling substances into the punch and cake, sneaking mouthfuls of poison to keep the words at bay. Pin the tale on the donkey, you have quickly forgotten the age of the company surrounding you, you take part because you feel comfortable degrading yourself for a couple of moments, out of harms way. The mind realizes the foolishness of this action and stabs parts of yourself with hate, you rise from the challenge and settle with knowing what's at stake. You've become accustomed, to something you use to be, the younger version of yourself throws away its gained wisdom and flocks to safety in havens that won't fit your grown self. A game of hot potato, but you've taken to staying up late. A school ground tactic of whose who, and you want to fit in, you want to remain. Not sure when it happens, but you wake up and you think, what the hell.. Strung together with adult profanities, and you've decided to stay grown. You tried to be the bigger person, you even acted small.. But what's the point when your opponent is nothing but a slob.

I've Got to Go, but I Stay Anyway

the interchanging ideas and the sudden breech of exactly what they were trying to save. the safety of this accident is quite upsetting to the audience of surrounding eyes waiting for the explosion of something much bigger then them, bigger then you and i. we aren't in fear but we are in the constant busstle of what we are doing, hyper aware of the in activeness of the activities we are engaged in, suited up ready to jump, but arent going to make the plunge because we cant decided what we actually want to do with ourselves so we dance on the possibilities and we weigh our ambitions on the strongness of our next moment, and then when they all snap into place, connect four, we are hungrier then hippos. so hungry for it, the fervent beauty of everything that is happening but we like it, oh yeah we like it and they like it oh yeah they like it. they are cheering for us! can you hear them, but we have our skeptics and we love them, we like them too but we cant help and enjoy their company. we are trying to cover it up, with anything we can find, but we are doing an awful job at it. this is such a bad job, but we keep at it because, well we arent to sure of anything but it feels so good, so we keep doing it and then everything crumbles and everything rebuilds and we knock it all down to watch it all come back together, and you're telling me stop but you're telling me to go and your asking me to stay and your asking me to stay and i cant help but stay, i want to stay, i've got to go, but i stay anyway.

A Bad Excuse Is Better Than No Excuse At All

That fragrance streaked across my good times. The rush and hush of hurried hands, tongues, and minds. Sprinkling your touch all across my body and calendar. Undetermined consequences but understandable affection and attention and a strong sense of caring and not caring. Caring for you and not about those who see it, with peering eyes but peering into the eyes whom hold care for you too. A feeding frenzy of uncontrollable like, a severe case of want and a budding sliver of need. A pressing point of pressing, me pressing into you, you pressing into me and the best slumber I've ever had. Tangible slumber that mimicked tangible times and suddenly I'm exactly where I didn't want to be but I'm starting to get the feeling that I just want to be where ever you decide to be. Shame on me. Polishing shoes, getting ready to step over and right on top of those who are in the way of what I'm feeling, because suddenly I am fleeting, and not just with the emotion but the motion in action and the time to act is now, if I don't shake and shimmy that I can't complain, a bad excuse is better than no excuse at all.

Shut Up and Talk to Me

Jumping jack emoticons and this is nothing but a text message love affair. Adding and subtracting, letters from words to make them appear less meaningful. “Luv” replaces love and “I want you”s linger on the literary disaster of “wanna chill”. Electronic hugs and kisses making up for a physical connection. Connecting to WiFi is seemingly more important than connecting with each other, on a more personal level. Charging batteries so hearts can beat longer, we are already living in a robotic age, where we have come to grip what were feeling with the buttons of a keyboard. Goodnight turning into “gnite” and good morning were a thing of the past. Chivalry is not dead mind you it has taken on an entire new form, an entire entity of wave lengths, instead of holding doors we hold Blackberries and iPhone, instead of politely saying your departure you text acronyms like “GTG” “TTYL” in a word where languages are a everywhere, we slack on the very essence of what we want to say to obtain what we want. Don’t text it to, say something to me, anything, don’t talk to me in your letters and half slacked words where you have gone an sawed off the flavor of the words. Say something. Shut up and talk to me.

Match Make You Over

The object of your eye, attainable. However, the ruins you have decided to sleep in keep you from obtaining and have you restraining from admitting just exactly what you want to admit. Full of wants. You want this and that and some of this and some of that, like Frankenstein's bride. Match make you over and keep whatever you want for spare parts. Access denied. You are disqualified because it is clearly recognized you aren't worth the trouble. Tripping on ideas, and loose ends. Trying them out for size, glistening post-its of happiness keep you reeling in more and more and the hourly addiction to whom you are attracted to begins a frenzy in your membrane and you take two steps forward to take twenty steps back and we're at exactly at the pivotal moment of walking on, moving on. The action of gathering one's pride and stuffing it into their pockets so they won't have to carry on their shoulders, and the action of pushing.. Pushing your feelings all the way down