Not all of us hear the melodys that can be described by punctuation marks,
most are blind to the music.
Who are these people to hear the greatness of all instruments,
but who are these people that can not feel.

Lets pretend to hear voices that talk about every word we hear,
or is that madness for the close minded soul.
I feel like i know something,  something  more.

The vibrations
The feelings
The beats of our ear drums
The solos of our heart

Lets put a word, a simple one,
the people who know about the little voices running away inside

Its passion.
Love.
Darkness.
Meaning.
Its about the rythim
Simple songs that talk

Every song is different to your type of heart

My ears are bleeding
in the best way possible.
My soul is flying.

Hey, Superstar!

Yeah, you - Indie Kid! Sure you are. You strut around as though all

                                                            ­ ­                                                    it takes

                                                          ­      is

a few too many Wombats Badges,

Converse, Ripped Jeans (Add one addiction to New York, and, of course, the necessary)

          Stupid f#cking Nose Rings and a Drop-Dead-*** exterior. Name three songs the Ramones wrote and I might not rip that shirt right off your back.
You pretend to love festivals but really, you’re just Keeping Up Appearances; we all know that - like you’re some bad reality show. (Even MTV wouldn’t touch you. There. I said it.)

And then

               There is her: a carbon copy eyeliner addict in her

       Stupid stupid stupid! boyfriend’s

F#CKING C-H-E-C-K-E-R-E-D SHIRT

(And the tunnel she stole from the girl that started this.)

Don’t even chat to me about red-head and dip-dye.
And when did AC/DC become your social suicide?

          You harp on about individual, rap on about original, well excuse-me-SIR-ever-so-sorry-MISS-but-dress-yourself-in-sheepskin-­­because MY GOD IT SUITS YOU BETTER THAN ANY PAIR OF VANS.

Haha. Baaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Baa baa, Indie Sheep, have you lost your mind?

‘Cause your personality at least seems to have gone for a wander.

          And come back, in a FASHION -

Tarred in fake love for Nirvana and feathered with the only fatefellshortthistimeblink-182yoursmilefadesinthesummer song you know.

*Feathers? Really? I just told you that you ought to be woolly!

i always

wanted to be in love,
to be the person that others groan at in the hallway,
swapping affections and possibly personality with the boy of my choice.
wanted to be wanted.

wanted friends to be jealous,
to say god i wish i had a relationship like yours
and ask questions about where we met and how we got along.
wanted to be noticed.

wanted my mom to talk to her friends,
complaining about how obnoxious i was and how infrequently i made my way home,
causing family members to ask on about my boyfriend at gatherings.
wanted something normal.

believed it was possible for someone like me to finally have something average,
something to give me acceptance into the social world.
wanted not to be the outcast i made myself out to be.
thought and then.

thought and then i met a girl with eyes like cool ash and shoulders so heavy, so broad,
it took everything i had inside me to help her bear the load.
knew, knew as a child, when i suppressed my urges to hold a hip like mine,
to dip a red haired beauty under warm ballet hall lights and instead be dipped myself.

knew, especially when i pounded against the walls of a tiny bathroom cubicle,
screaming my desperation at not wanting,
but wanting so much to allow myself to lick the space where her collarbones met her neck.
thought i had been brought up to have an open mind.

-but, darling, i needed so much more than an open mind for this.

I just love it.
can't get enough of it.,
just did a line and It's only nine
5 glasses over to the finest wine.
bra,
Bra.
BRAAA!
pant's around my feet , I'm pouncin to thiss beat.
I'm fealin for that ***** I think I'm actin thirsty.
my mind is a rush I really want my crush .
This dubby's so loud My head's in some cloud
I cant take a seetin my feet are takin thinkin.
I won't be  even blinkin.!
........................................And he's hear in his lincoln  mmm...
more beer , More gear more Cheer! my dear ^-^
bustin outta light show ,.
tahh Now wer'e sippin nd I'm trippin..
   how I'm trippin Nd i'm livinn.






(sais the white girl that want's to be a rapper)

When we die
We sink back
Into that from which
We came

We reconnoiter
Our stuff
With that from which
We were delivered

And it takes
A bit of time
No one
Can be sure
How long

Because
Well
The process
Of reconnoitering

Starts with our rotting away from what we are now  
Involves some process
Or another
Of our being reabsorbed into the Earth and her elements  
Being redistributed  
Here and there  
And everywhere

Over that period of time
I am fairly certain
We cannot know
Ourselves as we are now

That is to say
There will certainly
Shortly after we die
Be an ending of neural pathways firing
And a stillness of thoughts
Even those that let us therefore be

And given enough time
Some of those elements
That were
Within us
Will certainly
Be without
What we now
Call us

And all of the elements
That we now
Call
us

Will
have
to
deal
W
i
t
h

t
h
e

p
r
o
c
e
s
s
O
f
B
e
i
n
g
W
i
t
h
o
u
t
N
e
u
r
a
l
F
i
r
i
n
g
s
A
n
d
W
h
a
t
W
e
N
o
w
C
a
l
l
u
s

And given
Even more
Time
As much as
random
Dissociated time
Needs
Elements
Of what we now
Call Us
Will be within
What we would now
Call other
Living things

Or, one living thing, viewed not through the lens of time.

As a poem
On an
Infinitely long
And strange
page