I suck at life. I am mean and obnoxious and I suck at life. I trip, I drop things, I ruin stuff. How can I go on like this?
I need a life bumper, cause I hate life, I hate running into people and I’m not good at breathing either.
If I were to list out all the things I’m not good at, I’d never run out of things to say. But I’m not here to brag – I’m here to complain.
I hate my two left hands.
toate imi vorbesc cuvinte
rasfirante-adanc in minte,
si prin apa, prin morminte,
eu barfesc de cele sfinte.
uite ceasul cum se trece,
mai ceva ca apa rece
ce era sa ma inece
nu intr-o secunda,-n zece.
uite timpul tavalug,
se ascunde in cosciug,
nici de n-am un betesug,
nu-s prilej de vreun belsug.
viata dulce de amara,
de cu zi si pana-n seara,
tu ma tii ca intr-o gheara,
pana moartea ma omoara…
Feelings are important, or so I am told. People care about things and about people and sometimes they are just like little impatient kids, waiting for good things to happen.
I know I couldn’t be more vague than that, but believe me, vague is my middle name (kinda; actually it is Mihaela), so bare with me.
Promises come to me in different forms. They sometimes look like happiness and flowers and trust, and sometimes they look just like sadness, tears and rain. Promises can’t keep you warm, but the hope that they’ll become reality might. They can’t feed you or heal your broken heart, but they can shine a different light on things you thought to be irremediably lost.
Promises are both the best and the worst things to happen when everything goes south.
Today’s mood:
Tonight before you fall asleep
I run my thumb across your cheek
Cry ‘cause i’m here to wipe your eyes
I know I made you feel this pain
You gotta breathe, we’ll be okay
Cry ‘cause i’m here to wipe your eyes
Please don’t lose your faith;
Don’t worry ‘cuz I’m here to keep you safe
I promise if you let me see your face
That I won’t let you down, I won’t let you down
Adunate, rasfirate,
Plusuri, minusuri, de toate,
Necuvinte imbatate
De parfumuri si de toate.
Ma repet pe matematic,
Fara sens si sistematic,
Dar cum totu-i problematic,
Ma misc prin viata acrobatic.
‘Mprastiate, aliate,
Semne, cifre-aliniate,
Carti din anticariate
Si povesti dizgratiate.
Amintirea ta-i sarata
Si cu gust amar de fata.
Cu picioare scurte-n brate
Si cu ganduri cenzurate,
Te deleg sa ma dezlegi
De-ale tale brate blegi.
The city of cold,
Of ruins and old
Is giving me plenty of motives to stay.
Why do you cose to run away?
The city of ash,
Of tired and trash
Has given me shelter, support and protection.
Why do you act like it’s an infection?
This city of words,
Of sharp wounds and swords,
Stopped giving me life and a dream long ago.
Why do you act like I am the foe?
Epilogue:
Isn’t poetic justice a wonder?
I suffered so long and alone and I wonder
That if I didn’t trick you, the trick is on me,
And my trick was so easy to see.
I’m all under spells and under a thunder.
I can’t bear the burden of this ugly blunder.
I’m sorry I tried to lie and to steal.
I thought that this city was the real deal.
Every thought you have sleeps in your blood.
Rational, coagulated states of living.
And every time you swallow world and mud,
I feel like I’m getting away with stealing.
Every secret you keep prays for a flood.
Broken gates with intense fear of pain.
And every time you taste the blood,
You annihilate the human strain.