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One, two, three, relax.
One, two three.
Once upon a time I could concentrate. I knew what I had to do and I could set out and do it.
One, two, three, four.
Now everything is broken. I can't look back, I can't make any sense of it. I can't make any sense of today, tomorrow.
It's my mind. Disease has covered my mind, like a blanket, a fores**t fire. All I have are metaphors, similies.
I await desperately for this light, some ray of hope that can come lift me from this. Strength no longer has meaning, only survival matters, s**trength is not a variable.
And so I dance on letters, tango with words and I s**till can't tell how I feel because the part of my brain that deals with it is dead. People become objects, emotions change without meaning. The likelyhood of finding love again has become zero. The likelyhood of me caring, is less.
I'd tell you what I enjoy doing but I can't remember.
I could tell you about fear. Oh, yes, I could tell you about fear.
I can tell you what it's like to be afraid of yourself. To find no hatred in anything except your reflection. To know, deep down, that every day you are battling to keep the mons**ter inside. Keep it away from light, far away. You can't kill it, no, we're realised this. But we can keep it away.
But I need to know what it's like to love again. What it's like to be thrilled, excited. Give me these emotions, give me their meanings.
Give me fear.
And like a blade I'll cut through it, I will slash it's throat and I will choke it to the floor with clenched teeth and wide eyes.. and I will LAUGH, I will laugh in it's face as they gurgle in the blood and spit that they makes them all the same.
When your enemy is yourself, you sometimes find it hard not to attack, and try to crush it. Crush your own thoughts, escape from them, ride onwards far away moving always to a place where you'd never need to look back from.
And I will continue to s**tumble over words tripping myself into sentences that s**till makes me afraid. I continue only in hope that they make sense. That this all makes sense.
Music plays, I catch the words 'idiot, slow down' and wonder if he means me. I can't escape.
And I say this only for two reasons, I swear. The firs**t is I need to move. I need my fingers to glide over the keyboard and somehow push all I can out of myself, talk deep from my heart and hopefully rid myself of this hatred, this hidious itch that is scratching and screaming from inside my soul.
The second reason is research. The s**tories I mus**t write, the s**tory that needs to be told, I need to s**tudy this later I need to unders**tand even when I'm rid of this, to be able to look back and CONCENTRATE on what I see.
Words are flowing fas**ter than I can type them. I'm trying not to use the backspace. No matter how many mis**takes I make. I have to travel on. Let the words flow.
BLAST this blas**t it to hell where I will wait with a shotgun and a newspaper.
And above all, I mus**t remember, remember, I am not special. No music no words should convince me...
Oh but it does... it speaks and I hear. No delusions of grandeur, it lives. It lives deep, dark inside me, holding a flame that will never s**top burning.
And no matter how far I run, how far I hide, it'll always be there, breathing down my neck, telling me what I should do.
And he, yes he... he knows me, he becomes me and I become him. We are one, together.. he was right all along. Such a s**trong voice... nothing I could ever say or do could change it.
And I will SCREAM in anger. We know we have to change this, what we can do. That we could go out... we could scare them. Remind them that they deserve to die.
Not jus**t the pavement sh*t, the pigs, wallowing in their greed, their pride. I will catch them, by the scruff of their neck, and cut them back, cut them down.
And as I slip away from myself, a ray of light appears, as I become him.
I am him.
And now I shall show you what fear means.
One, two three.
Once upon a time I could concentrate. I knew what I had to do and I could set out and do it.
One, two, three, four.
Now everything is broken. I can't look back, I can't make any sense of it. I can't make any sense of today, tomorrow.
It's my mind. Disease has covered my mind, like a blanket, a fores**t fire. All I have are metaphors, similies.
I await desperately for this light, some ray of hope that can come lift me from this. Strength no longer has meaning, only survival matters, s**trength is not a variable.
And so I dance on letters, tango with words and I s**till can't tell how I feel because the part of my brain that deals with it is dead. People become objects, emotions change without meaning. The likelyhood of finding love again has become zero. The likelyhood of me caring, is less.
I'd tell you what I enjoy doing but I can't remember.
I could tell you about fear. Oh, yes, I could tell you about fear.
I can tell you what it's like to be afraid of yourself. To find no hatred in anything except your reflection. To know, deep down, that every day you are battling to keep the mons**ter inside. Keep it away from light, far away. You can't kill it, no, we're realised this. But we can keep it away.
But I need to know what it's like to love again. What it's like to be thrilled, excited. Give me these emotions, give me their meanings.
Give me fear.
And like a blade I'll cut through it, I will slash it's throat and I will choke it to the floor with clenched teeth and wide eyes.. and I will LAUGH, I will laugh in it's face as they gurgle in the blood and spit that they makes them all the same.
When your enemy is yourself, you sometimes find it hard not to attack, and try to crush it. Crush your own thoughts, escape from them, ride onwards far away moving always to a place where you'd never need to look back from.
And I will continue to s**tumble over words tripping myself into sentences that s**till makes me afraid. I continue only in hope that they make sense. That this all makes sense.
Music plays, I catch the words 'idiot, slow down' and wonder if he means me. I can't escape.
And I say this only for two reasons, I swear. The firs**t is I need to move. I need my fingers to glide over the keyboard and somehow push all I can out of myself, talk deep from my heart and hopefully rid myself of this hatred, this hidious itch that is scratching and screaming from inside my soul.
The second reason is research. The s**tories I mus**t write, the s**tory that needs to be told, I need to s**tudy this later I need to unders**tand even when I'm rid of this, to be able to look back and CONCENTRATE on what I see.
Words are flowing fas**ter than I can type them. I'm trying not to use the backspace. No matter how many mis**takes I make. I have to travel on. Let the words flow.
BLAST this blas**t it to hell where I will wait with a shotgun and a newspaper.
And above all, I mus**t remember, remember, I am not special. No music no words should convince me...
Oh but it does... it speaks and I hear. No delusions of grandeur, it lives. It lives deep, dark inside me, holding a flame that will never s**top burning.
And no matter how far I run, how far I hide, it'll always be there, breathing down my neck, telling me what I should do.
And he, yes he... he knows me, he becomes me and I become him. We are one, together.. he was right all along. Such a s**trong voice... nothing I could ever say or do could change it.
And I will SCREAM in anger. We know we have to change this, what we can do. That we could go out... we could scare them. Remind them that they deserve to die.
Not jus**t the pavement sh*t, the pigs, wallowing in their greed, their pride. I will catch them, by the scruff of their neck, and cut them back, cut them down.
And as I slip away from myself, a ray of light appears, as I become him.
I am him.
And now I shall show you what fear means.
Simply great.
Brilliant. Felt so honest and from-the-heart.
Some kind of self analysis?
Evocative (I think that's the word I'm looking for) all the same.
Evocative (I think that's the word I'm looking for) all the same.
Grix Thraves wrote:
> And so I dance on letters, tango with words and I still can't tell
> how I feel because the part of my brain that deals with it is dead.
> People become objects, emotions change without meaning. The
> likelyhood of finding love again has become zero. The likelyhood of
> me caring, is less.
I love this particular paragraph, just conjured ome wonderful images and thoughts.
Overall the piece was also great; so wonferfully worked with some brilliant defining sentences and moments.
I like, Grixy.
> And so I dance on letters, tango with words and I still can't tell
> how I feel because the part of my brain that deals with it is dead.
> People become objects, emotions change without meaning. The
> likelyhood of finding love again has become zero. The likelyhood of
> me caring, is less.
I love this particular paragraph, just conjured ome wonderful images and thoughts.
Overall the piece was also great; so wonferfully worked with some brilliant defining sentences and moments.
I like, Grixy.
The way you write seems so pure.
Delightful.
One, two, three, relax.
One, two three.
Once upon a time I could concentrate. I knew what I had to do and I could set out and do it.
One, two, three, four.
Now everything is broken. I can't look back, I can't make any sense of it. I can't make any sense of today, tomorrow.
It's my mind. Disease has covered my mind, like a blanket, a fores**t fire. All I have are metaphors, similies.
I await desperately for this light, some ray of hope that can come lift me from this. Strength no longer has meaning, only survival matters, s**trength is not a variable.
And so I dance on letters, tango with words and I s**till can't tell how I feel because the part of my brain that deals with it is dead. People become objects, emotions change without meaning. The likelyhood of finding love again has become zero. The likelyhood of me caring, is less.
I'd tell you what I enjoy doing but I can't remember.
I could tell you about fear. Oh, yes, I could tell you about fear.
I can tell you what it's like to be afraid of yourself. To find no hatred in anything except your reflection. To know, deep down, that every day you are battling to keep the mons**ter inside. Keep it away from light, far away. You can't kill it, no, we're realised this. But we can keep it away.
But I need to know what it's like to love again. What it's like to be thrilled, excited. Give me these emotions, give me their meanings.
Give me fear.
And like a blade I'll cut through it, I will slash it's throat and I will choke it to the floor with clenched teeth and wide eyes.. and I will LAUGH, I will laugh in it's face as they gurgle in the blood and spit that they makes them all the same.
When your enemy is yourself, you sometimes find it hard not to attack, and try to crush it. Crush your own thoughts, escape from them, ride onwards far away moving always to a place where you'd never need to look back from.
And I will continue to s**tumble over words tripping myself into sentences that s**till makes me afraid. I continue only in hope that they make sense. That this all makes sense.
Music plays, I catch the words 'idiot, slow down' and wonder if he means me. I can't escape.
And I say this only for two reasons, I swear. The firs**t is I need to move. I need my fingers to glide over the keyboard and somehow push all I can out of myself, talk deep from my heart and hopefully rid myself of this hatred, this hidious itch that is scratching and screaming from inside my soul.
The second reason is research. The s**tories I mus**t write, the s**tory that needs to be told, I need to s**tudy this later I need to unders**tand even when I'm rid of this, to be able to look back and CONCENTRATE on what I see.
Words are flowing fas**ter than I can type them. I'm trying not to use the backspace. No matter how many mis**takes I make. I have to travel on. Let the words flow.
BLAST this blas**t it to hell where I will wait with a shotgun and a newspaper.
And above all, I mus**t remember, remember, I am not special. No music no words should convince me...
Oh but it does... it speaks and I hear. No delusions of grandeur, it lives. It lives deep, dark inside me, holding a flame that will never s**top burning.
And no matter how far I run, how far I hide, it'll always be there, breathing down my neck, telling me what I should do.
And he, yes he... he knows me, he becomes me and I become him. We are one, together.. he was right all along. Such a s**trong voice... nothing I could ever say or do could change it.
And I will SCREAM in anger. We know we have to change this, what we can do. That we could go out... we could scare them. Remind them that they deserve to die.
Not jus**t the pavement sh*t, the pigs, wallowing in their greed, their pride. I will catch them, by the scruff of their neck, and cut them back, cut them down.
And as I slip away from myself, a ray of light appears, as I become him.
I am him.
And now I shall show you what fear means.
One, two three.
Once upon a time I could concentrate. I knew what I had to do and I could set out and do it.
One, two, three, four.
Now everything is broken. I can't look back, I can't make any sense of it. I can't make any sense of today, tomorrow.
It's my mind. Disease has covered my mind, like a blanket, a fores**t fire. All I have are metaphors, similies.
I await desperately for this light, some ray of hope that can come lift me from this. Strength no longer has meaning, only survival matters, s**trength is not a variable.
And so I dance on letters, tango with words and I s**till can't tell how I feel because the part of my brain that deals with it is dead. People become objects, emotions change without meaning. The likelyhood of finding love again has become zero. The likelyhood of me caring, is less.
I'd tell you what I enjoy doing but I can't remember.
I could tell you about fear. Oh, yes, I could tell you about fear.
I can tell you what it's like to be afraid of yourself. To find no hatred in anything except your reflection. To know, deep down, that every day you are battling to keep the mons**ter inside. Keep it away from light, far away. You can't kill it, no, we're realised this. But we can keep it away.
But I need to know what it's like to love again. What it's like to be thrilled, excited. Give me these emotions, give me their meanings.
Give me fear.
And like a blade I'll cut through it, I will slash it's throat and I will choke it to the floor with clenched teeth and wide eyes.. and I will LAUGH, I will laugh in it's face as they gurgle in the blood and spit that they makes them all the same.
When your enemy is yourself, you sometimes find it hard not to attack, and try to crush it. Crush your own thoughts, escape from them, ride onwards far away moving always to a place where you'd never need to look back from.
And I will continue to s**tumble over words tripping myself into sentences that s**till makes me afraid. I continue only in hope that they make sense. That this all makes sense.
Music plays, I catch the words 'idiot, slow down' and wonder if he means me. I can't escape.
And I say this only for two reasons, I swear. The firs**t is I need to move. I need my fingers to glide over the keyboard and somehow push all I can out of myself, talk deep from my heart and hopefully rid myself of this hatred, this hidious itch that is scratching and screaming from inside my soul.
The second reason is research. The s**tories I mus**t write, the s**tory that needs to be told, I need to s**tudy this later I need to unders**tand even when I'm rid of this, to be able to look back and CONCENTRATE on what I see.
Words are flowing fas**ter than I can type them. I'm trying not to use the backspace. No matter how many mis**takes I make. I have to travel on. Let the words flow.
BLAST this blas**t it to hell where I will wait with a shotgun and a newspaper.
And above all, I mus**t remember, remember, I am not special. No music no words should convince me...
Oh but it does... it speaks and I hear. No delusions of grandeur, it lives. It lives deep, dark inside me, holding a flame that will never s**top burning.
And no matter how far I run, how far I hide, it'll always be there, breathing down my neck, telling me what I should do.
And he, yes he... he knows me, he becomes me and I become him. We are one, together.. he was right all along. Such a s**trong voice... nothing I could ever say or do could change it.
And I will SCREAM in anger. We know we have to change this, what we can do. That we could go out... we could scare them. Remind them that they deserve to die.
Not jus**t the pavement sh*t, the pigs, wallowing in their greed, their pride. I will catch them, by the scruff of their neck, and cut them back, cut them down.
And as I slip away from myself, a ray of light appears, as I become him.
I am him.
And now I shall show you what fear means.