ThoughtDuJour

"Question Everything.
WHY?"

-- Graffiti

ThoughtDuJour

Thoughts:
1. Fear is our biggest motivation.
2. "What if" is the most dangerous question to ask your self.
3. Time to think will be your downfall.

--fear of others,
---fear of self,
----fear of not being enough,
-----fear of never being enough.

you love him, (quite a lot)
but, what if, (it's irrational but..)
he doesn't love you back as much? (What if he never does?)
you know he does, (he says he does)
but the question lingers, (always in the back of your mind)
what if, (it can't be but..)
he is in fact just a fake, (with fake smiles and hidden agendas?)
what if? (what if)

having time to think
leads to what ifs,
which leads to fear,
which leads to an avalanche of a breakdown,
which leads to a tremendous flood of pain and self doubt.

"and I trust that you love me too," -- Manchester Orchestra

First

[[Dug up from Friday, January 23, 2009 ]]

-- My rhyming is off again, terribly sorry.
i just can't change it.

the pace quickens as an inner battle starts to surface,
you pull your lips up, breathing faster when your hands start to shake
I'd never trade this, never end this, if it all went my way,
these memories are keeping me occupied, wide awake.

Countdown

[[Dug up from a lazy Sunday, on December 28, 2009]]

-- i concede it doesn't fit too well rhythmically,
and i apologize for the dodgy language.

one,
a single streak across yer four head,
announcing to the world that your back to stay,
telling them gits to stay the eff away,

two,
people that you're anxious to meet,
to tell em that they've won and you won't run,
you'll take it like you deserve till they're done,

three,
rings thrown on to phase the rest,
to think your tough enough to keep up with they're pace,
while you wonder why your in this mess,

four,
people you can't help but love,
and as much as you try to ignore the wanting in yer heart,
it keeps coming back and pulling you apart,

five,
flashes of pure adrenaline,
that cause hallucinations of superhuman invisibility,
leading to intense b*tchyness and hostility,

six,
pairs of narrowed eyes,
with silk gloves and a sadistic drive you'd prefer to deflect,
rather show em what yer made of and show you respect,

seven,
sins that you've committed,
either here or in the back seat of a luxury automobile,
using lie after lie to cover up the whole spiel,


eight,
prayers sent up to the big man,
to solve your troubles and help keep your head held up high,
to maintain your status and hit the bulls eye.

nine,
times you've cried alone in the corner,
questioning your existence in this big world of ours,
as every second the taste of it sours,

ten,
fits of laughter when this is all over,
relief flooding through your veins like a punctured river dam,
telling me its all over, this is finally who i am.

January

[[Dug up from Sunday afternoon, November 23, 2008]]

I can't help but hate living,
i this far corner of mind,
but i won't come out no,
i'm scared of what i'll find,

maybe it's just an illusion,
or a long waiting line,
hope seems so small now,
and it's safer just to hide,

I just want to feel like i felt,
when life was easy and no one could seize us,
i just want to feel like i felt,
when we were perfect and no one could hurt this,
i just want to feel like i felt,
in the month of January.

i can't help but missing,
our fingers intertwined,
no two faced sullen cowards,
charging from behind,

maybe it's just a question,
of which battle i must fight,
or who i can still trust in,
when I'm fighting for my life,

--bridge
now, look what we've done,
it won't be like this, for anyone,
but us . under the sun,
we lye breathless , waiting for the end,
and here it comes,

I just want to feel like i felt,
when life was easy and no one could seize us,
i just want to feel like i felt,
when we were perfect and no one could hurt this,
i just want to feel like i felt,

in the month of January,
in the month of January,
in the month of January,
in the month of January,

verses : F/C/EM/AM
chorus : F/C/F/C/EM/AM
bridge : F/G/C/AM... Read more
43234323432343234 .. ?

i love the stuff you write when you're at your lowest;
it may be cheesy, desperate and lame. but it's real.