everything is meaningless and i
mean it. there's no point to this
there's no point to me there's no
point in existing other than to
breathe and love and make sense
of why we're here and
i'm sick of people telling me that the smart ones
are the sad ones
because i'm not smart,
i'm sick.
i'm vomiting up all the
feelings that are so overused
and overexaggerated that i cannot
tell what is normal or not
until someone informs me
that daydreaming
of slashing wrists and leaking
red when i
drop a glass of water
isn't normal. i used
to think everyone was
this way and i used to
think there'd be some
cure
to this, some magic pill
filled with stardust
and a tendency for
chemical codependency
that would make
me stop throwing up
all the feelings
bottled in the pit of
my stomach. (the
magic pill made me throw up,
just not the bad things. only
the good ones.) and
i can't stop thinking about
how everything is meaningless
and we are all here
and they are all there
and no one will ever
know one another completely
and that's not okay with me.
it's not.

People seem to say, "Oh, it's totally fake!"
"Why would you believe anything you see them do?"
"It's all acting."
And that isn't entirely true, at all, but many people won't believe me.
Now, don't tell me I'm wrong, because this is my opinion.
I won't say you're right or wrong in thinking wrestling is fake.
All I'll say is, if you think it's completely fake, then I disagree.
And here's why.
I always ask those I talk to about this the same question.
I ask, "If wrestling is fake, then why do people actually get hurt?"
Then I say, "If wrestling wasn't real, then people would never get injuries that either cost them a few months, or force them to retire."
The reason why I always say this, is because wrestling isn't a joke.
I see people actually get hurt because they botch a move, or land wrong.
I've seen punches and kicks actually connect, and cause someone to get a concussion.
I've seen people get dislocations and broken bones, and wonder how long they'll be out for.
Sure, there are things that can be overexaggerated.
And I won't doubt that injuries can be purely storyline driven.
But, when the person is actually hurt, and needs surgery, how can you call that fake?
How is it fake if the injury causes someone to have to hang up their boots for a while, and go into physical therapy to recover?
How is it fake if it can cost people their careers, or their lives?
Remember what happened to Owen Hart?
He was supposed to come down from the ceiling, but the thing broke, and he fell all the way down to the ring.
People didn't know whether it was real or not, but he ended up dying from injuries sustained from that fall that same night.
Wrestling isn't fake, but it is scripted.
The storylines are scripted, I don't doubt that for a minute.
There are many wrestlers who have feuds on camera, but are friends behind the scenes.
There are people who act like heels, but are the nicest people you'll ever meet, or the other way around.
Mistakes are real, and the bumps they take will actually hurt.
There are things you can fake, and it does take acting in order to portray the right emotion.
But when someone breaks something while wrestling, and is out for a long period of time due to surgery and recovery, then it's hard for me to believe for a second that it's completely fake.
I prefer scripted, so that's what I call it.
Raw is on tonight, so I had this thought in my head, and decided to get it out.
Okay, that's my library post of the day.
I'll talk about something else tomorrow, or the same thing, I don't know.
I just write whatever I feel like, and I thought about this, so I wrote it.
See you tomorrow, bye!

For we so fearful, let me lead with caution
to the truth your mind feels needs protection
against.
We’re fenced
in and can't get out to be fully liberated.
Yes, fully, not this half liberated we overexaggerated
which made us blind to our institutionalized minds.
The Phala-Phalas know this, so this gang always reminds
us about 27 years, making us their voter slaves.
Until we realise Mandela took his party with him in his grave,
there's a Hendrik that keeps our rainbow apart.
Even if unity is the deepest desire of our hearts!

i lay on my bed at night and i stare up at those little plastic stars on my celing

i see you in them
                    i see me in them

you shine so bright and you are the light i look towards

                     but i am recyclable plastic

i tell myself that you dont need me anymore, that you have them now.
       i am so angry that you left me
well you didnt actually, but i feels like it
     these impaired chemicals in my brain make my emotions overexaggerated
       im trying to be happy but i cant let it go
you dont mention me                        
in your posts anymore
                                            im sorry
                                          i love you

Trudging the road
with heavy feelings,
like I am a pocketful
of tarnished golden shillings.

Dragging feet
through soaking
pavement; walking,
lured by the lark's
shrilly singing.

Twenty-one years
of overexaggerated living,
I was promised of a life
halfway fulfilled,
only to find at almost twenty-two,
to believe in people's wholehearted joking.

Spending the majority of
my life then, just daydreaming
of how things could be
if only I had stopped believing.

Yet here I am,
a pocketful of useless learning,
but I don't know how long this would last
until I stretch my fabric; thinning,
only to shred it apart; bit by bit, tearing.