Raz
Bluelighter
I'm fuelled by equal parts speed and beer and anger and like Marilyn Manson's misery machine I want to ride it out.
I'm uncomfortable in my own skin at the moment, there's odd small hurts inside me that I want to control into nothingness but they're beyond me, and that just pisses me off more.
I wonder what it all means. I wonder if it's possible that I could be more of a cliche, and I don't really even care a lot. I want that downward spiral for a while. My brain jumps in darkness and self-pity, like some kind of morbid swamp-dwelling bacteria that fucks itself and reproduces a million times in the shit and the mire of everybody else's tedium.
I find myself perched on the pretend edge. It's dizzy and heady when my eyes are closed, but when I open them again I see everyone pointing and laughing at the fuckwit who thinks he's some kind of dark uberfreak on a clifftop when he's really just a self-absorbed little boy balancing on the kerb.
I'm kind of over myself. I want to be someone else. I want my pain to actually fucking matter to someone. I want some fucking acknowledgement.
...So, the addendum. Or the epilogue, or whatever. Nothing changes, there's just a sad little sigh from all my neuroses that masquerade as art, and the smile plasters itself in place again and the cliche rolls right on.
...The dependable old misery machine rolls right on by and no-one even notices...
I'm uncomfortable in my own skin at the moment, there's odd small hurts inside me that I want to control into nothingness but they're beyond me, and that just pisses me off more.
I wonder what it all means. I wonder if it's possible that I could be more of a cliche, and I don't really even care a lot. I want that downward spiral for a while. My brain jumps in darkness and self-pity, like some kind of morbid swamp-dwelling bacteria that fucks itself and reproduces a million times in the shit and the mire of everybody else's tedium.
I find myself perched on the pretend edge. It's dizzy and heady when my eyes are closed, but when I open them again I see everyone pointing and laughing at the fuckwit who thinks he's some kind of dark uberfreak on a clifftop when he's really just a self-absorbed little boy balancing on the kerb.
I'm kind of over myself. I want to be someone else. I want my pain to actually fucking matter to someone. I want some fucking acknowledgement.
...So, the addendum. Or the epilogue, or whatever. Nothing changes, there's just a sad little sigh from all my neuroses that masquerade as art, and the smile plasters itself in place again and the cliche rolls right on.
...The dependable old misery machine rolls right on by and no-one even notices...
