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Description
Typical typos and typographical errors.
Soundwaves mix with brainwaves and mirrors result in the end.
Busy driving away on the edge of this wave.
The red and the yellow mix for a frightening day.
Haven't gotten used to the sound of your voice.
Haven't gotten used to you not being by my side.
It makes me sad to think that one day you will hate me.
I can already see it filling up inside of you.
Especially when you don't even look me in the eye anymore.
Running amuck in a town full of sodomy, you are the least of their worries.
One girl two girls three girls, no more.
You have been eighteen different people, eighteen different lives, eighteen different lies, and now it is time to settle down.
Time to die.
The plant is no longer a shade of green that we love.
The camera takes pictures in the negative sense of 'photography.'
Certain requests and facial expressions mix to form an army against me.
If you decide to hate me I won't be mad.
I think I feel it draining inside me as well.
Closer is the worst thing for a girl who lives in an ice cream bucket.
Fatter then an anorexic but skinner then a bulimic.
With a throat that is torn away from screaming on the inside, your're looking pretty good.
Requiem for a dream sends a calling for less distress.
Naked lunch is a reminder of a he that has no name.
It was taken over by someone who holds grudges and hate-a-thons.
Fall down the left side.
Land on the right.
Tears that scar and rip away the self-confidence you lost.
Strapped to a seat in a theatre, four miles from home but just next door.
Pry your eyes open, and smell everything it has to offer.
Expect the argument on the way home, I assure you that it's comming.
Grocer interviews at early mornings that call for alarms.
Black red yellow metal and hair dye is allowed to be present.
Sitting back thinking drinking my coca coca cola.
The world has never been so see through to me.
Never been so crystal.
Disgustingly real and painfully true that the only thing you own is yourself.
The only thing you cannot control is you.
Ink stained fingers and boy stained heart.
The deadly combination that makes your ribcage hurt.
A phone call from a man who claims to be your father.
Pulls your insides out and you smile while crying because you miss him but it doesn't even matter.
What will you grow up to be. Like him. Like her. Like you?
When a person asks this question they don't really care they just want to know that you are as lost as they are so that they feel a little more secure.
A little more secure about the world that they live in, that is so fucked up that they can't even hold on. The dashboard is spinning nine times faster then you are and when it is seven oh five and he is still not answering you being to ask questions to your insides. You begin to debate if it is worth the pain and consumption of bullshit.
The dead flag blues are a damn good reason to look down.
There is tea on my shirt and the white has turned to coffee.
I sigh.
Three times.
One for you.
One for me.
And one for the others that I will meet and depise.
Pull your hair back tight and prance onto the stage.
Like some sort of animal.
Worse then that.
Like some sort of girl.
Glancing to my left side all I can think is purple.
Then I think of the childhood cousin who I came to love and then lost to something else.
Trust is not something that is easily gained.
But lost in a second when your actions happen but are not even made aware to you yet.
Not even when you are staring into a mirror, watching yourself make the biggest regret of your life because at the time everything seems fine. Everything seems perfect. And he seems like more then the whole world could ever give you, but you do not realize that he is listening to the little devil on his left shoulder that urges him to. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. You.
And to that boy I say, thank you for ruining everything I will ever think again.
Thank you for showing me the world is a terrible place where no one is to be trusted and everyone is lying. Everyone is selfish. Everything is meaningless.

Description
Typical typos and typographical errors.
Soundwaves mix with brainwaves and mirrors result in the end.
Busy driving away on the edge of this wave.
The red and the yellow mix for a frightening day.
Haven't gotten used to the sound of your voice.
Haven't gotten used to you not being by my side.
It makes me sad to think that one day you will hate me.
I can already see it filling up inside of you.
Especially when you don't even look me in the eye anymore.
Running amuck in a town full of sodomy, you are the least of their worries.
One girl two girls three girls, no more.
You have been eighteen different people, eighteen different lives, eighteen different lies, and now it is time to settle down.
Time to die.
The plant is no longer a shade of green that we love.
The camera takes pictures in the negative sense of 'photography.'
Certain requests and facial expressions mix to form an army against me.
If you decide to hate me I won't be mad.
I think I feel it draining inside me as well.
Closer is the worst thing for a girl who lives in an ice cream bucket.
Fatter then an anorexic but skinner then a bulimic.
With a throat that is torn away from screaming on the inside, your're looking pretty good.
Requiem for a dream sends a calling for less distress.
Naked lunch is a reminder of a he that has no name.
It was taken over by someone who holds grudges and hate-a-thons.
Fall down the left side.
Land on the right.
Tears that scar and rip away the self-confidence you lost.
Strapped to a seat in a theatre, four miles from home but just next door.
Pry your eyes open, and smell everything it has to offer.
Expect the argument on the way home, I assure you that it's comming.
Grocer interviews at early mornings that call for alarms.
Black red yellow metal and hair dye is allowed to be present.
Sitting back thinking drinking my coca coca cola.
The world has never been so see through to me.
Never been so crystal.
Disgustingly real and painfully true that the only thing you own is yourself.
The only thing you cannot control is you.
Ink stained fingers and boy stained heart.
The deadly combination that makes your ribcage hurt.
A phone call from a man who claims to be your father.
Pulls your insides out and you smile while crying because you miss him but it doesn't even matter.
What will you grow up to be. Like him. Like her. Like you?
When a person asks this question they don't really care they just want to know that you are as lost as they are so that they feel a little more secure.
A little more secure about the world that they live in, that is so fucked up that they can't even hold on. The dashboard is spinning nine times faster then you are and when it is seven oh five and he is still not answering you being to ask questions to your insides. You begin to debate if it is worth the pain and consumption of bullshit.
The dead flag blues are a damn good reason to look down.
There is tea on my shirt and the white has turned to coffee.
I sigh.
Three times.
One for you.
One for me.
And one for the others that I will meet and depise.
Pull your hair back tight and prance onto the stage.
Like some sort of animal.
Worse then that.
Like some sort of girl.
Glancing to my left side all I can think is purple.
Then I think of the childhood cousin who I came to love and then lost to something else.
Trust is not something that is easily gained.
But lost in a second when your actions happen but are not even made aware to you yet.
Not even when you are staring into a mirror, watching yourself make the biggest regret of your life because at the time everything seems fine. Everything seems perfect. And he seems like more then the whole world could ever give you, but you do not realize that he is listening to the little devil on his left shoulder that urges him to. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. You.
And to that boy I say, thank you for ruining everything I will ever think again.
Thank you for showing me the world is a terrible place where no one is to be trusted and everyone is lying. Everyone is selfish. Everything is meaningless.