Closedeyes' Blog
Meaningless Words
For now, all I can do is cower.
So that's what I'll do.
and I'll think up words to say to them, but never on cue.
I'll chew them up, then spit them out.
I'll tear them to pieces, inside and out.
But I'll only do it in the safety of my own insane mind,
because outside these walls, I am too kind.
They'll make fun of my hair and my dress.
I'll dream up of things to fix this whole mess.
I'll think but I'll never say.
So for now, here I lay.
I write the words I mean,
and try to blow off some steam,
and sure, it'll help,
but tomorrow's a new day,
for them to say what they want to say.
So that's what I'll do.
and I'll think up words to say to them, but never on cue.
I'll chew them up, then spit them out.
I'll tear them to pieces, inside and out.
But I'll only do it in the safety of my own insane mind,
because outside these walls, I am too kind.
They'll make fun of my hair and my dress.
I'll dream up of things to fix this whole mess.
I'll think but I'll never say.
So for now, here I lay.
I write the words I mean,
and try to blow off some steam,
and sure, it'll help,
but tomorrow's a new day,
for them to say what they want to say.
Meaningless Words
For now, all I can do is cower.
So that's what I'll do.
and I'll think up words to say to them, but never on cue.
I'll chew them up, then spit them out.
I'll tear them to pieces, inside and out.
But I'll only do it in the safety of my own insane mind,
because outside these walls, I am too kind.
They'll make fun of my hair and my dress.
I'll dream up of things to fix this whole mess.
I'll think but I'll never say.
So for now, here I lay.
I write the words I mean,
and try to blow off some steam,
and sure, it'll help,
but tomorrow's a new day,
for them to say what they want to say.
So that's what I'll do.
and I'll think up words to say to them, but never on cue.
I'll chew them up, then spit them out.
I'll tear them to pieces, inside and out.
But I'll only do it in the safety of my own insane mind,
because outside these walls, I am too kind.
They'll make fun of my hair and my dress.
I'll dream up of things to fix this whole mess.
I'll think but I'll never say.
So for now, here I lay.
I write the words I mean,
and try to blow off some steam,
and sure, it'll help,
but tomorrow's a new day,
for them to say what they want to say.
In The End
Everyone writes about morbid things. But whatever happened to that happy, little girl on the beach, in a long, frilly dress, giggling when the waves hit her pink toes?
She's become the stoner in the back of fifth period, writing poems about death, and cries her eyes out every night, while her mom screws around, drunk. Whatever happened to the boy who was playing catch with his father in the park that sunny day? The boy who aspired with all his heart to become a star football player?
He's become the star football player, alright - loaded on steroids. His father? Not even there. Gone. What happened to happy, youthful couple, sharing a wonderful time over dinner?
They're at home. She's in the bedroom crying, with bruises on her arms and legs. He's in the living room, drinking straight out of the Jack Daniels bottle.
Everyone writes about morbid things because in the end, nothing really is that perky and delightful. In the end, we all give up, and take the easy route out. But we'll never forget the little girl, the little boy with his father, or the happy couple. Because they're the things we look forward to when we lie to ourselves about a shining, perfect future.
She's become the stoner in the back of fifth period, writing poems about death, and cries her eyes out every night, while her mom screws around, drunk. Whatever happened to the boy who was playing catch with his father in the park that sunny day? The boy who aspired with all his heart to become a star football player?
He's become the star football player, alright - loaded on steroids. His father? Not even there. Gone. What happened to happy, youthful couple, sharing a wonderful time over dinner?
They're at home. She's in the bedroom crying, with bruises on her arms and legs. He's in the living room, drinking straight out of the Jack Daniels bottle.
Everyone writes about morbid things because in the end, nothing really is that perky and delightful. In the end, we all give up, and take the easy route out. But we'll never forget the little girl, the little boy with his father, or the happy couple. Because they're the things we look forward to when we lie to ourselves about a shining, perfect future.
