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inanescribbles
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Name: Zak
Birthday: 9/16/1988
Gender: Male
Interests: Not eating, not sleeping, spending time with those I love.
Oh, plus I work.
Expertise: Being stupid. I think everyone should put that. It adds pizazz and style to any page.
Being a MBAMF.
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Business
Message: message me
AIM:  kabukibc
Member Since:
4/20/2006
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SubscriptionsSites I Read
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| I've got nothing more to say to you, Xanga.
ps - listen to this song
pps - advice: Don't romanticize. Period.
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| You'll feel it in the air in the wake of my disaster
and know that life nor calv'ry ever tried to prove my master.
On sites they'll scream about how it wasn't time,
and newspapers will wail about the pitied crime,
but i'll be fine in clear white pools,
shimmering like valued jewels
in dreams and wishes,
i'll blow you kisses from such great heights.
let you know that you shouldn't fright,
even though there's no way i'll be able to reach you to tell you i'm alright.
I had a dream last night, of how things should be,
and I was right, damnit. I was right.
I've acquired a couple complexes over the months,
such as obsessively doing things,
like ritualistically slashing my pride.
Carrying pens around for fear that I won't be able to remember some clever realisation.
Spending hours behind guitars I'll never own.
It's like one giant regression, back to the times where
I'd tear my hair out and talk to myself (just like that),
except this time I've got the restraint to leave my body alone
(i just attack it in different fashions).
I would feel guilty, hurting anybody else.
There are other complexes, too, such as
fearing finances or
human contact or
eating or
music or
going outside.
it isn't that bad, though, because she would bring me food when i was hungry.
she covered my eye so that I could sleep.
In times of need she played me guitar, and showed me there's more to life than today,
and less to life than tomorrow. (fuck sorrow)
She would take me walking and show me places that were picturesque,
like showing some ghoul the beauty that he left behind.
What do you do when the odds are stacked against you, and they've taken your stepladder.
You can't run anymore...
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| Get. A. Grip.
Will I ever feel the heat.
Touch the fire for the warmth.
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| I've been carrying a pen around with me, obsessively, for the past hmm little while. It's become a particular fascination to me, what arises out of my mind whilst I'm falling asleep (and care not whether it's penned) or while I'm driving, etc. So, what with my recent fixation, I decided that I'd put it to use. thus begins what I like to think of as a continuing thing I do, but we'll see:
memories are merely products
of chemical and fiction,
and hope is made through memories
and ongoing affliction.
would that we find such consolation
in substances so feeble,
to feed off life and company
and repel impending evil
as users use their mechanisms
dealing with addictions
whereas the fallen struggle with their fetters and addictions,
we might find hope,
like the fallen cope,
and revel in our fiction.
* * * *
for it was not
the pace of my feet but
the pace of my heart which had increased,
proving myself no longer running, but embracing
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