It's hard to illustrate
this essence in frames
some love is easily lost
but some love, it stays.
You draw outlines
With precision and care
And still gets smudged
in pain and despair.
You try to illustrate
take every right step
still, leave enough room for silly mistakes.
Some love, it just stays.
You try to erase
those sloppy details.
nevertheless, can't escape
but some love, it just stays.
She grabbed her faux leather messenger bag,
threw in 3 old band t-shirts, 3 pairs of underwear,
2 bras and a couple pairs of ripped skinny jeans, her Polaroid camera to take photographs of where she goes, a book, a journal to document her thoughts, a sketch pad, a package of Marlboro Red 100's, a lighter, her iPod and some toiletries. She didn't say anything, she just out and left. No note, no warning, nothing but her mess of a room. She smiled at her room, her dream catcher, her poster-strewn walls, all of it.
And she slipped out of her window. 'Goodbye,' She thought to herself and started walking. But what she didn't know was she had
just left her life and started a brand new one. She was walking to the edge of oblivion. She was shooting herself straight off a cliff,
off of the safety under her roof, the safety of her bed, the safety of everything she left behind. All she had was that bag. 17 items. That was her life. 17 items to keep her safe, 17 items to live on for the rest of her time. For the 3 years until she was 18. Until she could show her face in public again until she could be seen. But until then, she was alone. She sparked her lighter and lit up a cigarette. All alone with her bag and a package of cigarettes. She sat down on the curb by the bus stop and began to draw. And that was that. She was lost in her mind. Her mind had run farther than she had. Because after all,
Sketch me down in your notebook,
take away the insecurities and the imperfections
that exist just to mess up the message here.
Who am I? You decide.
I tried to lead myself and ended up
losing myself when I tried to fly.
Sketch me down in your notebook
and take away all the bad.
Draw a perfect picture.
It was February 6th, the boy could taste the wood in his teeth
Had a bad habit, of a pencil, and biting on it
It was history class, in boredom the boy could pass
A blank page, for a bored mind like his in its own cage
The page screaming, for him to fulfill it with a drawing
A rock and a girl,
Seemingly in her own world
The boy had drawn a stranger, and although he had made her
And she had come from his thoughts, her, he didn't know lots of
It was interesting, he had made a character, perhaps story teller
Couldn't tell what she was thinkin', or who she was even
It was as if this image he'd made, had its own thoughts that would fade
Just like the rock, and the girl
Both drawn in pencil, would eventually fade leaving a mere sample
The page that was once empty, was fulfilled simply,
With the vision of a portrait, that by looking at it, it stood still
Yet anyone who interpret it carries, their own series of stories
However, to the boy she looked quite sad, maybe because he has what she never had
The ability of speaking, breathing, living, after all she is just a drawing
Maybe she seats on the rock with thoughts that are existential, as she realizes she is drawn in pencil
We are going to have
a lot of fun
I promise! It will not be Like blood ending "Promise."
Although -- Alternative flight off is recomended!
When I see beauty I recognize it!
When I see a dark tragedy creeping along the alleys of life,
travesty of its bitterness pressures the chairos in me,
reeling the karma of all
the involved acteurs.