Peyton Leigh Stille
And it's a story about a young girl.
Not too young, like my age.
And she has sex with a lot of guys.
Like two or three different ones a week.
She kind of leads them on.
And she likes them.
And she has a mom,
but not a milf.
Just like, a basic mom.
And this mom has a boyfriend.
Both of them are probably in their 50's
and are very basic divorcees.
Maybe he's a widow
but I don't know.
And her mom wants
to get to know her daughter
and she wants them
to get to know each other.
And her daughter is a flirt
and wants her to like her too.
And nobody knows what
happened in those gloomy grey areas.
But none of them meant anything bad to happen.
I look back.
I know what I did.
I know that I'll do it again.
I know that I'm no good.
Existing in a stratosphere full of a familiar twilit breeze,
I reign down on my enemies.
I'll plant them in my sanatorium
and tuck them nicely into bed,
leaving them to gaze mindlessly at a cerebral ceiling.
Because they all say I'm crazy--
but they don't know of all the things
that have died from my hospice embrace.
So they'll gaze mindlessly at a cerebral ceiling
missing everybody they know,
and seeing beauty in the
placid birds floating past their mental window.
I'll still give them the birds.
This is a shout out to this season
and its amused facial expression
as it taunts me and my need for a fix.
I can't wait
to not live in a morgue.
But I seem to be
all the time.
If anyone is looking for a neck-rub,
today's the time.
Dead guys don't seem to enjoy them
I miss the feeling of
fuzzy animals rubbing against my leg
and my heart
and all the other happy feelings.
The killers are callin' on me,
and when I realized it
there was a shit ton of screaming
by only one person.
And I used to be sick
of my new apartment
because it was an empty barrel
that made the loudest sound.
And it looks like we cracked
a second after
I crawled into my hole,
not understanding why
anyone would want me
like a big deal.
I'm not interested in a great first show
or keeping my friends close.
I'm just interested in the evils in my life.
Posing upon a pedestal
bare and broken.
See my silhouette
in the spotlight.
Life isn't La Vie En Rose
Just a slumber party duet--
naked upon the rock bottom floor.
I'm a fan,
letting all the ashes rush.
I'm a fan,
but not an addict.
I'm a fan,
creating movement of the wind.
I'm a fan,
but not an enthusiast.
I'm just trying to show people
how things are;
not how they should be.
I'm too unique.
I'm a mover
and there's movement everywhere.
Move with me.
Do you realize
it's so lunar?
Making sounds that don't form words.
And I've tried out the consonants more than once
and all I can hear is the silence--
louder than any sirens.
Do you realize
that although there's a cyclical melody never ending
I still only hear the silence?
Be my knight in white satin...
but you can never pull off such an airy fabric.
Even though we're both so lunar,
we are different oddities in different frequencies.
Do you realize
any of it?
But it doesn't matter
because nobody knows
and nobody cares.
But I guess I'm witit.
My body imprisons liquor
creating a shelter for it's
because the emptiness of my reasoning
cannot relate to those who were given swelling hearts,
because my heart was created to expire.
And all of the places I retire to
will not be like the night
when all the light was liquified.
This is my ode to severance
and my ode to sesame chicken,
and my ode to walking on a frigid evening.
I've been to St. James' Infirmary
to hide away
where my suitor put a bullet through me.
These days I'm a ghost,
and haunting is a hindrance
to the acid-burnt hole in my
that longs to be able to lick
the sharp side of a knife.
But I sit in St. James' Infirmary
because I'm sick to my stomach
and sick to my brain.
I'm not the hero of this story
because all I found was a darling
that I didn't wish to cherish.
The darlings will all go to New York or somewhere
to escape from being buried alive
in this cemetery I've been digging up
for as long as I can remember.
I assume I'm just in appreciation
of the walkmen making their journey
from my home to the heart of Louisiana
I am an onyx bird of unusual beauty
with a vision of being ceaseless.
I'm the dark horse without a fan club,
shining bright black.
We're danger stalkers
searching for the modest
at dawn in the garish part of this metropolis.
And my soul sprints
when everything is secure and sane,
and I want to stalk the danger again.
So I make meager attempts at blackmail,
to attempt to satisfy all the charmers like me
frozen in the frigid north.
because discipline is gobbledigook
in balmy compartments.
I have a charcoal rosette
taped to my chest.
Is it honorable?
It calmly smolders my heart
at this banquet with all my company.
I leave nonchalantly at the hazy end of the night,
-casually slip on my gloomy boots-
and build up my wails for creatures.
I love the heinous beasts
and stories of lad meets lady.
Where's the chick habit
that's supposed to be clinging to me?
I don't have some chick habit of believing that
there's meaning to loving someone.
So come along, bro.
My love is your worst homie.
Bang bang bang.
I kill you.
Bang bang bang
I fuck you.
I'm a burnout,
burnt to the ground...
and I'm taking the forests with me.
And your the plastic decorations
that melt to the ground
in the aftermath of my flames.
I wish I could melt with you,
but my body is already made of ashes.
And the things I find morose have changed
from being suspended from classes
to just breathing and spending money...
and smacking bitches' asses.
If you should try to kiss her,
remember that she'll soon turn to ashes.
And while we're young
we'll forget about the explosions.
Because she's always the new thing
and if you light her up she'll just be
a display of fireworks to you.
And I'm searching for the harvest within myself,
so that for once I can make things bloom
destroying them with an exploding boom.
mais la nuit est jeune
and it will always be young.
So we wash and dance and showcase ourselves
using symbols like roses and arrows.
My whisper is a high pitched scream,
I can never seem to be soft enough.
And I've never been a lover of books
but I love what they've done for themselves.
And I've never been a lover of poetry,
but I'm an author and lover of words.
So kiss them for me,
because I'm exhausted.
Kiss them for me in the still sound of music
and I'll scream though I don't want to.
You are the light,
but I live in a comfortable cave.