Good Morning

The soft-serve ice cream tastes like Toledo dreams and spell-check mistakes; I've counted the stars too many nights to mistake them with the neon signs that line the roadsides. The sun is setting behind a cloud of dust, but it's only ten thirty... ten thirty in the goddamn morning and all I see is lichens and moss; other overgrown shrubbery.

So for a victim who only could sing the words of another, pray with hands together, legs apart. Pray, for a whore, a martyr, a godforsaken rant on bananas and apple juice.

We're here to count heartbeats, to electrocute the scuba diver and implement a bad idea. We've got a plan, we can't get caught -- we've got a plan, we're moving on and letting go.

The New Cities, illegal activities and foreign disaster all taste like Toledo too.

We Are The Ocean

I wish to stand the voice of a million, but I remain silenced in the face of humanity. I cringe at the idea that a façade so strong should eventually fall, yet know deep in my heart there lies nothing but rotting floorboards and silly string.

I can pantomime a collection of old school records being cranked out of my grandfather's radio reminiscent of the '59 sound and more radio hit references, or I could read Stephen King novels and go on hour long spiels about nothing. Yet here I am. Still alive. Still breathing.

This night, it tastes like the early morning. I'll be feeding the sunrise come sixx:AM. I'm at the corner of the world and the music; they're on two different planes of existence. Sometimes, I wonder on which I belong, or should I remain forever trapped in between.

I am naught but another faithless warrior, looking for a lover (or some resemblance of) and his counterpart so he does not befall his hopelessness upon myself.

Is It My Body?

I suppose I've fallen for your solidarity. I owe so much to these words that leave my tongue; I steal from men and women around the world. This is my fault, this is my wrongs and dimes and gutter face-planted Sheffield local music scene reference.

This is Bring Me The Horizon on crack, and Vegan Holocaust on fame. This is the local music and the local noise. This is local, in the sense that we're here, and you're over there. Over there, but I don't know for how long.

I've felt divided before, but I've never given so much for a foolish bad decision.

Hey, maybe Slayer is worth $80.