This was sent to me from my ex. We still speak regularly through the medium of facebook inbox. He’s given me such vivid memories. The grief of it all ending embedded within me a fear of letting myself go and letting somebody new in – this, alongside my inability to be truthful and honest to myself holds me back from any relations with substance. I did let someone in, but to him, a guy of the same name, I spoke fondly of my ex and possibly a bit too much. I’m a difficult one to crack, but when somebody finally does, though I might be as difficult as a quadratic equation to a baby, it’ll be worth it. Loving oneself will be the first step to new beginnings.
On the other hand, the memory of love is always a beautiful thing and the intensity of it all will not be repeated, so I count my graces. I wish I still loved him like I did, but you can’t make yourself feel what you don’t feel. I certainly do love him though. He’s like a delicate flower who through some kind of pact with himself has vowed only to spread wholesome and positive seeds to me any time we’re in contact. I know he handles me from the heart. That’s pure.
Everybody desires such companionship, shared attraction, unspoken devotion – it’s built within us. No matter how much I currently need to be by myself because of the circumstances of me not being “out” and still living at home, I yearn like any other. This may only come in waves, in sonic waves, as often as a full moon, but it comes.
I wrote some lyrics. I don’t usually. I had a rhythm that followed my footsteps as I walked my dog, though that seems to have lost itself along the way. Must have left it dancing in the rain.
Come on, write me a song and sing me in to the night.
What’s the matter?
Am I not worth it?
I’ll give you more than you can want
if you can unearth it.
I’ll play out your fantasies
be whatever you want from me,
if you unearth, go ahead and work it.
It seems all I keep doing is
give it away
and all the while I daydream that you want to play
And write a song for me
just pen your thoughts to me
write a song for me
we’ll sketch it in history.
This ain’t no film noir silent movie
baby come and talk to me
just write a song for me
pen it down for me.
Am I not worth it?
I’ll make it worth it,
so baby work it
And we can dance the night away.
Starting some music-related posts. Music is a huge part of my life. Music journalism is what I profess as a “career”. Wannabe thus far, with some merits behind me. Usually, you’ll find me stomping my feet in rhythm to repetitive beats after having had consumed thought-bending recreational narcs. But at home, it’s about the lyrics, the lurrrve and the chill. It’s very cliche to post music but then I guess my whole life is one big cliche.
I’m ambitious by nature. This fuel that burns my waking thoughts intertwines with an incredible lethargy, of which at present I am in submission. The past couple of years have been devoid of chasing such desires, or of chasing and failing, partly down to the lacking economy and jobs, but now it’s a horrible, stained glass habit. I know what needs to be done, I just lack the balls to do it. The strength in me is drained by my own wandering mind. Such is the conclusion of a dreary happy-go-lucky confusion. The people who surround me determine my mood, and this is something I dislike. Dependence, almost involuntarily, feeds my worst habits.
Dreams, I am personified.
Beings purvey their persistence
while I rest on gifted luxuries
amongst the mess of weekend last.
Stains scar my presence,
weakness gives birth to me.
It is hope that bridges me
to my lacklusterly pursued destine.
Sharing forever with yesterday
it’ll happen tomorrow, the skies defy
bland wishes than pollute aims so high.
Submit to masterful urges,
they rule the mind, the core of me
they degrade me, strip me of my
intelligence, make me cower and
repress. No such being achieves
their dreams. They only verb it.
Yet my day is filled with night
And I get an awful fright
At how my flight
will crash and burn
twist through nowhere, turn
with no care, landing on planes so bare.