so how bad is it that i'm living off anger lately?
i'm thankful to be angry and im talking fucking furious.
i am angry so i exercise.
i fucking hate that i miss you, so i work hard.
i loathe being depressed, so i go out.
i am so sick of this shit, so i am moving.
i want to fight so thank god for telemarketers.
i know that i will see you one day and you will apologize.
i want to tell you to fuck off, and so i will.
i am pushing forward and i will prove you wrong.
i am still here even though you are gone.
i am livid cause you knew that i would be.
fuck you, you knew anger would work for me to survive.
viernes, 9 de septiembre de 2011
martes, 6 de septiembre de 2011
De BEFORE AND AFTER
So it is very weird that people stare at you. They are even more aware than you. Its the first day you are back, the first party you go to, the first drink they see you have, and the first time they see you as a single, not a couple. Sometimes people don't mean to stare, they always do anyway. Thank god you are with your new friend, who is really an old friend who moved back after what happened and who's smart enough to never bring it up or your new status because he has been through a similar situation. He makes everything feel new, even if it truly is the same old shit.
As the night progresses and you get a few more drinks in you start to relax, you start to ignore how many people have come up to talk to you that would have never before. You start socializing more with people who you disliked before and had nothing in common with. Were all on the same boat, yet I am drowning all by myself.
The truth is you need a new crowd. You need to move from where you are (which is a block away from where you lived before). You crave affection from a person who belongs to the after part of this fucked up life whom you can use up and discard without having to explain what before was. So what if your tattoos are daily reminders of before? You got them after, and their only yours, not his, not anyone else’s.
After is when you've realized that you are mad. Furious. Enraged. This motivates you. This makes you want to have a body that agrees with the after part of your life. After is when you look the opposite from the way you feel. Just to confuse them, just to let them know that you are stronger than you look and at the same time totally more destroyed than they know. They will never know. Only you feel it. Only you have witnessed it. This is what is so lonely, only you know how it feels, losing that which you fear the most.
As the night progresses and you get a few more drinks in you start to relax, you start to ignore how many people have come up to talk to you that would have never before. You start socializing more with people who you disliked before and had nothing in common with. Were all on the same boat, yet I am drowning all by myself.
The truth is you need a new crowd. You need to move from where you are (which is a block away from where you lived before). You crave affection from a person who belongs to the after part of this fucked up life whom you can use up and discard without having to explain what before was. So what if your tattoos are daily reminders of before? You got them after, and their only yours, not his, not anyone else’s.
After is when you've realized that you are mad. Furious. Enraged. This motivates you. This makes you want to have a body that agrees with the after part of your life. After is when you look the opposite from the way you feel. Just to confuse them, just to let them know that you are stronger than you look and at the same time totally more destroyed than they know. They will never know. Only you feel it. Only you have witnessed it. This is what is so lonely, only you know how it feels, losing that which you fear the most.
domingo, 28 de agosto de 2011
De This is who the fuck I am
I am tiny and loud (maybe cause I have to be). I am someone who has lost the ability to participate in small talk and bullshit. I am practicing how to detach from everything.
I have always obsessed over music. I am enthralled with its power. I really wish I could sing.
I am someone who would rather party hard than cry and mope. I was always precocious and I try everything once. Altered states of mind are my perfect match.
I like short skirts and I don’t like other girls. I also aesthetically really like girls. I can never talk to them really, but I’ve always thought that they are so much fun to watch.
I don’t really like food and I am just now getting into exercise. which has only reminded me: I do EVERYTHING compulsively.
I really don’t care about cars, but I love listening to your problems, cause I’ll always know that mine are more fucked up. This sometimes I enjoy. This tears me up inside continuously.
I am someone who lives a life divided in before and after. It’s hard to remember before and after really fucking sucks today.
I am jaded in many a way and I can always hear what people say. But really all I want is to be okay. I am impatient with living day by day. As if there were any other way.
I am someone who has lost. I am left behind. I was not taken into consideration and I am extremely mad. I am Angry, even enraged. I am also really insane.
I am in love with someone who is dead.I want love from anyone else. I am furious at the person who died. I never want to love again.
I am in mourning and all by myself. There is nothing that anyone else can say. In the last three months I’ve learned how not to complain. I manipulate myself so that I can only hurt me.
I am honest and I don't think I'm misunderstood. I like to fix people and they listen to me. All of this is funny since I don't really know who I want to be.
My body is my temple, which is why I must decorate it. I figure tattoos narrate my story bit by bit. Since my insides are burning I must now look fit.
I’ve been abandoned, disregarded, and abused. I want to be strong and I am exhausted. I'm the center of a hurricane and I really fucking hate this. Right now everything is about me and I'm trying to love it.
miércoles, 17 de agosto de 2011
where he went (when he died).
It will feel like I made him up
I can always tweak the stories,
I could even change the ending if I wanted
Maybe all I need is to keep moving,
Move away from this hell.
It is like I never knew him,
It feels like he is so far away
Then there's when he comes crawling
Coming out from under my skin
IS THIS WHAT IT WILL ALWAYS BE LIKE?
Why would I be so special?
There are other damaged ones out there,
Other zombies that are numb
I am asking anyone who will still listen,
To make me feel anything .
How is it that he is the one who left,
And I am the one that is fading?
I wonder if it’s true,
That I can turn him into fiction
Or if he will become my destruction.
I can always tweak the stories,
I could even change the ending if I wanted
Maybe all I need is to keep moving,
Move away from this hell.
It is like I never knew him,
It feels like he is so far away
Then there's when he comes crawling
Coming out from under my skin
IS THIS WHAT IT WILL ALWAYS BE LIKE?
Why would I be so special?
There are other damaged ones out there,
Other zombies that are numb
I am asking anyone who will still listen,
To make me feel anything .
How is it that he is the one who left,
And I am the one that is fading?
I wonder if it’s true,
That I can turn him into fiction
Or if he will become my destruction.
jueves, 4 de agosto de 2011
El Cuento Obligado..parte final
El demonio visita a la princesa todas las noches por un largo tiempo. Llena a la princesa de su música hasta casi hacerla explotar y luego la deja. El éxtasis se vuelve cotidiano.
El demonio la convence. El demonio la tranquiliza, la asusta y la vuelve a relajar. La princesa aprende a manipular su bondad de acuerdo a lo que quiere recibir del demonio. Adicta a su música, cada vez pidiendo más.
Después de cierto tiempo, una noche común y corriente el demonio se acerca a la ventana de la princesa. Murmura su nombre, llamándola. La princesa se acerca, le exige que entre como todas las noches, pero el se rehúsa. La princesa, desesperada lo toma de los brazos quemándose las muñecas. El demonio solo le dice: "soy tu dolor. Soy el ser que amas que ha muerto. Soy el hijo que perdiste sin razón alguna. Soy la llamada que anuncia que alguien murió. Soy el amigo del que no te despediste. Soy la droga que arruina vidas. Soy el alcohol que nunca mediste. Soy tu falta de productividad, de lealtad, de honestidad. Soy las cosas que pasan en la vida y no en los cuentos. Soy la razón por la que no existen las princesas".
El demonio la convence. El demonio la tranquiliza, la asusta y la vuelve a relajar. La princesa aprende a manipular su bondad de acuerdo a lo que quiere recibir del demonio. Adicta a su música, cada vez pidiendo más.
Después de cierto tiempo, una noche común y corriente el demonio se acerca a la ventana de la princesa. Murmura su nombre, llamándola. La princesa se acerca, le exige que entre como todas las noches, pero el se rehúsa. La princesa, desesperada lo toma de los brazos quemándose las muñecas. El demonio solo le dice: "soy tu dolor. Soy el ser que amas que ha muerto. Soy el hijo que perdiste sin razón alguna. Soy la llamada que anuncia que alguien murió. Soy el amigo del que no te despediste. Soy la droga que arruina vidas. Soy el alcohol que nunca mediste. Soy tu falta de productividad, de lealtad, de honestidad. Soy las cosas que pasan en la vida y no en los cuentos. Soy la razón por la que no existen las princesas".
miércoles, 3 de agosto de 2011
suck you dry
its keeping me alive
cooking up ways to hurt you
im hurrying up to find anywhere what we had
using up everyone around me
hating the reflection that you once loved
wearing the skin that you loathed
i keep picking at the scabs
mixing up the letters in your words
fucking up the chances i am given
leaving early everywhere
you never listened anyway
always did just as you pleased
so what if you chose to go this way?
now i get to scare everyone away
turns out there is no getting revenge from the dead
turns out i am all alone again
cooking up ways to hurt you
im hurrying up to find anywhere what we had
using up everyone around me
hating the reflection that you once loved
wearing the skin that you loathed
i keep picking at the scabs
mixing up the letters in your words
fucking up the chances i am given
leaving early everywhere
you never listened anyway
always did just as you pleased
so what if you chose to go this way?
now i get to scare everyone away
turns out there is no getting revenge from the dead
turns out i am all alone again
martes, 2 de agosto de 2011
De la percepción.
Claro que morirse es percepción y cada quien le hace como puede, con lo que tiene. Se te murió alguien, y cada cultura, cada generación, decide que se hace. Nada consuela .
Allá afuera hay gente como yo. La gente que como que no se ríe de los chistes de Amy Winehouse. La gente que de repente llora en canciones que nunca le habían conmovido antes. Si no lo piensas mucho pues a nadie le da risa la muerte, la desesperanza, o el desamor.
La gente que dice reírse, en verdad tampoco lo hace. Más bien reacciona. Reaccionar con risa a lo obscuro, a lo triste, es una manera de convencernos de que podemos sobrellevar las tragedias. La banda dice, pues no me queda más que reír. Ahora cuando escucho eso, pienso verga, a mí que puto trabajo me cuesta reírme a veces. Y la neta me cuesta más todavía llorar.
Yo soy de esas que la vida la ha puteado, pateado en el piso, y luego dado una manita para ver que hace. Luego te se levantan con miedo a sabiendas que ahí viene el próximo vergazo. El primer putazo, siempre uno se dice, fue el peor. Pero luego viene el segundo y rompe madres, pero no te mata. Los demás, te van volviendo más paciente, vas calando. Y fucking sigues aquí. No te vas porque ya viste lo que implica largarte. No romantizas la muerte porque la muerte deja un cadáver, y la gente que te quiere tiene que lidiar con tu cuerpo, con tu decisión, con tu desconsideración. Si vas a suicidarte, te aconsejo, lo hagas en un lugar donde nadie te conozca. Donde desaparezcas. Ese lugar no existe.
Allá afuera hay gente como yo. La gente que como que no se ríe de los chistes de Amy Winehouse. La gente que de repente llora en canciones que nunca le habían conmovido antes. Si no lo piensas mucho pues a nadie le da risa la muerte, la desesperanza, o el desamor.
La gente que dice reírse, en verdad tampoco lo hace. Más bien reacciona. Reaccionar con risa a lo obscuro, a lo triste, es una manera de convencernos de que podemos sobrellevar las tragedias. La banda dice, pues no me queda más que reír. Ahora cuando escucho eso, pienso verga, a mí que puto trabajo me cuesta reírme a veces. Y la neta me cuesta más todavía llorar.
Yo soy de esas que la vida la ha puteado, pateado en el piso, y luego dado una manita para ver que hace. Luego te se levantan con miedo a sabiendas que ahí viene el próximo vergazo. El primer putazo, siempre uno se dice, fue el peor. Pero luego viene el segundo y rompe madres, pero no te mata. Los demás, te van volviendo más paciente, vas calando. Y fucking sigues aquí. No te vas porque ya viste lo que implica largarte. No romantizas la muerte porque la muerte deja un cadáver, y la gente que te quiere tiene que lidiar con tu cuerpo, con tu decisión, con tu desconsideración. Si vas a suicidarte, te aconsejo, lo hagas en un lugar donde nadie te conozca. Donde desaparezcas. Ese lugar no existe.
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