Lost_and_fallen
November 25th, 2005, 04:19 PM
Numb and empty.
Sick and tired.
Fragile and stuborn.
Afraid and alone.
All contact disconnected, communication ceased, phone lines dead and words dropping heavily to my feet.
I don't know how to talk about this anymore
The people around you become accustomed to your mood swings, your parents grow used to the angry or sad music playing through the wall, even you see nothing unusual, nothing to worry about anymore.
So you climb upon the roof top, the soft music turned up full volume, and you take that secret book filled with blood and scrawled, angry, biro truths and fill it with more blood and illegible words.
You wonder if maybe your next step is the wrong one, contemplate how easy it'd be to step back inside, into the warmth
(because it really is cold out here, out here in your hoodie).
The seconds pass by so s l o w l y as you make excuses for your actions, trying to justify the unjustifiable, and you just stare and stare at the stars. You remember that they no longer exist. They're just explosions that happened millions of years ago. And you cry for the dying stars.
(But remember that all the blackness in between the destruction is filled with the stars you just can't see, the ones that haven't yet imploded or exploded or whatever that technical term is.)
And you struggle to stand on the frost covered slate roof as you stare down at the grass in the garden
(think about how it cracks and crunches beneath your feet when you walk on it. Smile at that memory, ok? Please, just smile.)
...........and jump
This was never home. This has never been sanctuary or sanity or safety. It's just been shelter. It's just been radiators and pillows and clean socks.
So don't miss it. Don't you dare miss it.
Sick and tired.
Fragile and stuborn.
Afraid and alone.
All contact disconnected, communication ceased, phone lines dead and words dropping heavily to my feet.
I don't know how to talk about this anymore
The people around you become accustomed to your mood swings, your parents grow used to the angry or sad music playing through the wall, even you see nothing unusual, nothing to worry about anymore.
So you climb upon the roof top, the soft music turned up full volume, and you take that secret book filled with blood and scrawled, angry, biro truths and fill it with more blood and illegible words.
You wonder if maybe your next step is the wrong one, contemplate how easy it'd be to step back inside, into the warmth
(because it really is cold out here, out here in your hoodie).
The seconds pass by so s l o w l y as you make excuses for your actions, trying to justify the unjustifiable, and you just stare and stare at the stars. You remember that they no longer exist. They're just explosions that happened millions of years ago. And you cry for the dying stars.
(But remember that all the blackness in between the destruction is filled with the stars you just can't see, the ones that haven't yet imploded or exploded or whatever that technical term is.)
And you struggle to stand on the frost covered slate roof as you stare down at the grass in the garden
(think about how it cracks and crunches beneath your feet when you walk on it. Smile at that memory, ok? Please, just smile.)
...........and jump
This was never home. This has never been sanctuary or sanity or safety. It's just been shelter. It's just been radiators and pillows and clean socks.
So don't miss it. Don't you dare miss it.