Off the Front Page; Off the Record

We are children spreading stories, telling lies to those who are eager to listen. They whisper behind their hands, they talk about relationships, and downtown escapades. They talk about the boys who steal purses, and girls who play football. The cross-dressers, bisexual, and the mysterious kid who sits in the corner. There spear the child in the wheelchair; taunt the teachers and their appearances, with their methods as only underlying reason. They are vicious; they are cruel.

We take it down the road -- our show no more than casual sex and disgusting antics, in the middle of the street on a Thursday night. So we're out like a light, but we pretend our flame still burns bright, and that our tournament did not finish up years ago. We're living in the past, as we move on towards the future, and brighter days of gloom and doom. We're poets of the worst kind, the "kids who didn't make it" in life. Yet we thrash ahead to the same beat as the rest of the world, ahead in alcohol and the business of insanity.

We make mistakes, because everybody else makes mistakes. It doesn't take much longer than a second to right them, doesn't take longer than a second to destroy ourselves. So we're running again, off into the starless night, and into the depths of our lover's eyes, swimming in tears and misery, saying "kill me now", and other things we stereotype as a trend, versus real emotion.

Sick, Sick Sobriety

He builds me up stronger than New York; holding together a nation with the flick of a finger, wave of a hand. We're structurally sound, connected by every odd mind wave and blank expression, our eyes glazed over and our brains running on seemingly identical frequencies. We're two radios on the same station, polluting the air with our noise. We're two rocks lying in the same river, being yanked apart by the current -- further, until no more but a shadow and ripples can be seen.

Cue the part where you colour me cliché, decide that it is not worth the wait, and dive head first into the well of bad ideas. The sunshine darkens, covered by clouds, and the self-respected emperor sinks beneath the thick rapids; waves wash ashore what remains -- nothing more than an empty shell, or the foundation of a building strong. There is nothing left, but a hollow and vacant structure, to fall at the slightest impact as you've fallen away in time.

He builds me up stronger than New York, on the verge of self-destruction -- deteriorating and self-destructing from the inside out. Then he tears me down faster than an airplane would; collapse into the water, float away to a place where someone else may fall.

Sinking Ships on Halfway House

Quarter past twelve on a Sunday morning, was behind the hazel eyes and dancing shadows the light of day. Crying about the deal we didn't make, it was nothing but mere sanity issues, and a few pieces of uncertain anguish. For those nights we can't remember, wasting away behind a veil of kindness and hollow emotions, dreaming of a better world without war and peace. There was once a line between the different faces of humanity; now there is none.

With all heavens bowing down to our toes and kissing the soles of our feet with parched lips, begging for a drink, we begin our escapade towards exploration of a better life. In a new world of dystopia numbers and prescription medication, there is nothing but emptiness and the distant echo of these days reverberating through an empty room for empty ears detached from the minds in which they used to inhabit.

So in this room that is vaguely familiar and more like home than home, lies four people -- none of that are complaining at this content stage of nostalgia, and will continue so until the become no less than catatonic.

Senseless Sanity

The eyes have seen nothing more than those lips between the moonlight trees, backlit by the sun setting over the horizon and the stars glittering high above all clouds. The sky polluted with colours of the seasons, the golden oranges, and fiery reds obstructing the natural beauty of it all. The radiator blasts foul smoke, and in the broken down vehicle, we await the morning glow. The mouth in the sky is near felony, opening wide and swallowing us with the darkening night. We are nothing more than those harboring fugitives are.

We're dancing to songs by the Clash as morning swings around, and screaming words -- music without a tempo, sound without a beat. There is white noise and the paranormal engulfing and taking over what we once saw familiar underneath the methodical glare of headlights and a destination. A work of wicker twists and turns paved on gravel trails and woodchip roads, winding deep into the open world before us, trees obstructing our past like immobile giants.

We pretend we like it- we'll never like it. Saying that we're free in this wormhole of insatiable uncertainty and irresponsibility, wasting about on alcohol and cigarettes, thinking we're cool. Through the desert skies, sing melodies, ready and waiting for my best friend, an acoustic guitar, and me.

Colour of Skin -- Flesh

However, not but enemy said the fallen soldier, brazen amongst the war-torn worlds he did not understand. This slip of foolishness brought upon miles of turmoil dancing over desert sand, and the sweetest taste of sour at the back of your throat, the bile that arises as you expel the contents of your stomach in fear; in ache and pains. Moreover, 'twas no more than the sound of a lullaby, stranger singing songs into the brisk air for the deaf. The words that you yourself are no longer permitted to sing -- he understands then.

Carpet Issues

Drinking the water so we don't drown,
Four days later the world burns down.
Upon our ashes lay frozen ground,
Shaking, breaking, faking sound.

Raved through nighttime sky,
The world has learnt to pass us by.
Playing our song to say goodbye,
Drifting off in order to die.

And let it all be what we see,
Let it all be our cup of tea.
A metaphor for that are we,
Lost to a world in simplicity.

Lampost Dancing Skies

The night is dark; the sky is bright. Yet the moon it glows, burning through the clouds into the world, where neither people nor savage see fit for illumination. Beneath the darkened bright-lit sky, lies a collection of people – strange, a compilation of the oddest factors, binding together begrudgingly and without much other option.

There is no say in the gathering, and there is not much say in much else either. All is love and politics, all is safe and sound. Yet beneath the chemicals in the nighttime air, sits a song we're never willing to sing.

When the birds come out to play at dawn, and the sun shall show once more, the shortened expense of this nighttime meeting dims, and nothing is anymore worth more than pennies down the drain and paperclips in the office.

Nothing worth more than those who have a say – those who have something to say during the hour when the shadows take over, only to be blinded by the light in the sky, impersonating our good friend, our knight.

Expression Expresso; Hands Over Eyes

In the midst of social awkwardness and dreams beyond my fingertips, I allow myself a piece of mind – a space to introduce myself. My name is Emily; I am naught but a foolish high school student traipsing blankly through the World Wide Web.

Beyond the friendly demeanor and over-enthusiastic smiles, there is something else hidden within the world. So be it that this world is where my secrets lie – my most secretive and private feelings splayed out for the world to view.

Let it remain, that strangers, miles away identify with this tangled web of relinquished dreams, and this vichyssoise of verbiage without much meaning at face value.