Topics

61

Creative Endeavors / I Believe Baseball's Underrated, But On Infatuation, I'm ...

« on: May 06, 2004, 08:05:01 pm »

I Believe Baseball's Underrated, But On Infatuation, I'm Confused
Time, it passes just so quick.
It's like we're moving every second.
And if I could, you know I'd tell you what I think of this.
I'd ask the others for help, but they're all stoned.
So time won't seal this, or give this burn enough time to heal.
And we've no hope for a while, long after this has passed.
Now we're all stuck here, drinking piss at our knees.
They say it's Cabernet, but it tastes a little off if you ask me.
I doubt they care, so hold my hand.
Walk with me through this sewer tunnel.
The city's so loud,
The noise is getting louder, and the fires are spreading.
It's getting darker, as we fall asleep in hopes we'll wake up,
On the floor beside our beds. I think we've fallen too far again.
And it hurts, because I can feel your heart beating,
But I can't keep its rhythm.
And if you knew what I was going to say,
Would you end it all like this?
It's Summer. Spring became over, so quick. It's so old.
You can keep your diamonds with you, but mine will fade.
And if the next attempt fails like you,
I'll catch it, and hold it like I held you.
Bring me smiles like a package that comes too infrequently,
And so often to the wrong address.
Do you know where I'm hiding, under this all?
I don't remember anything.
The wind carried it all away, like your voice in my ears,
Or my words, caught in someone else's throat.
Your skin is burning from this sun,
That faces away but carries on like it's alright.
But nothing can grow, and you will never bloom to me.
You will rise, like the prevelant darkness that comes,
With the dying of the sun.
I'll put my heart in front of this loaded gun, sacrifice myself.
Hallways are moving while I'm still.
Or maybe they're stuck here and I keep moving,
All I know is that I'll never catch up to you.
Stuck in the hallways between the painted picture,
And the photographs, torn, and the door to our old bedroom.

62

Completely Off-Topic / Mark My Words . . .

« on: April 30, 2004, 12:58:51 pm »

Now, I know Andrew and I are the only two here who care about this (though you all should - and it kind of makes me sad that you don't), but the Derby's tomorrow! 130th Kentucky Derby, right? Okay, so this is what I've got:

Borrego (20-1) WIN
Smarty Jones (9-2) PLACE
The Cliff's Edge (4-1) SHOW

That is how it's gonna be. It's true. And you can't deny it - Churchill Downs is THE racetrack. The shiznat, I say. And it's a fuckin' rider. You don't want to fuck with it, because you know it brought its gang (?) with it.

Yes, I'm gangsta. I know. Too much to handle at this point.

I really hope that Minister Eric doesn't win or place or even show because I really hate Pat Day. In fact, no - I hope Day falls off his horse and is trampled over.

That's all. I decided to bring some middle Eastern (American ) love into this place.

63

Creative Endeavors / Asleep for You

« on: April 27, 2004, 11:27:07 am »

I took another step off the painted porch.
I looked through the doorway.
I thought I saw your reflection through the glass,
But I kept driving. I drove right past your house.
And I think you may have been home, but I don't actually know.
And then you sink into me, through the song on the radio.
I used to have this feeling, but it's been a while, now.
Sometimes it burns me, and my windshield's fucked up.
(I couldn't see you, but you were with me.)
We talked and talked about what I wanted to know about you.
I think I'm making this up. No, because we visited my cousin at his grave.
He was fourteen when he died.
I think he knows how much I miss him, but I'll sing it one more time:
Hey, Mitchell, I miss you.
But let's talk, because I don't like cemeteries. It's so fucked up.
And this is what I think is happening to me.
It seems so far, and I can't see past the smoke in this heated room.
Which reminds me that fighting was stupid.
I just wanted the difference between who you are,
And who you used to be.
I don't want to leave anymore than they do.
I don't want to ascend, I just want to stay here,
With those I love and those I've lost, because I'm so lost.
And then we could all be the same. We already look the same.
We can drive together and talk about religion and politics and love,
And all these subjects we're supposed to stay off of.
It's conservative, but I can change.
I've got an idea, just read to me, from a storybook.
Pronounce every sentence.
We'll fall asleep in my box outside your house.
Hide me on the top shelf of your closet,
Because this box is getting square and much too cold.
I don't think anyone would care if I stayed tonight.
Because if I don't, I'll slip on my front step,
Trying to chase your image in the doorway.

64

Polls / Who Do You Look Like Most?

« on: April 20, 2004, 10:47:09 am »

Your Mom or Dad?

Becauseeeee . . . I look like my Mom was as a kid and now, so I've heard, and she looks either Italian or Jewish, so that basically means my hair colour is unidentified (O_o sure it does). But everyone in her family looks alike, all of us. We can't help it sometimes, though.

So . . . Like whom do you look?

EDIT: We were talking about this in class, today. During Computer. Yeah, and BRENDAN is supposed to be really Irish and things (his Dad's whole side of the family is nothing but Irish, probably some random Germans or Englishmen somewhere, but for the most part they're Irish) and Brendan's first, middle, and last name are Irish . . . But he has dark skin, dark eyes, and dark hair. He's not black Irish, either.

65

Polls / What Kind of Cereal Did You Last Eat?

« on: April 18, 2004, 06:51:37 am »

Corn Pops!

66

Creative Endeavors / Stuttering May Ruin

« on: April 18, 2004, 06:31:05 am »

Nevermind.

67

Creative Endeavors / Summer Cold (Or Whatever You Call this Pneumonia)

« on: April 16, 2004, 04:40:34 pm »

You know who you are.

I just want to tell everyone that I definitely just took a drink of Pepsi and I'm guessing it's mine, but it actually could be someone else's.

My bed is so cold, without you here to warm it for me.
And my lips still shake when I hear your voice,
That we recorded on my answering machine.

And I died, but just a fraction of the time I played it out,
Like the music box that refused to play,
That we put on the shelf, near our bed that's getting so cold.
I'm grabbing onto pillows instead of feeling your body.
So take a walk outside, trace your steps in reverse to me.
I'd follow you, but the leaves that came covered your footsteps.
Winter froze them. And in Spring, they melted away from me with you.
(Things were so different last year.)
This Spring, it's so long, and the nights are, too.
I'm so tired of being tired of feeling tired without you.
(Things were so different last year.)
If my pen doesn't stop, then we'll create an analogy,
Because the endless spilling of my pen,
Is to the staggering movement of your steps.
They never end, because the endless spilling of my pen is . . .
Something, I don't know. But I know it never ends.

And it rains so much this time of year,
Trace your steps back to me.
I'm so alone.
The hope to end my loneliness has driven me to find only more.
You're so out of reach.
Will you speak to me?
You're so out of reach.

The only time I move, is to shake when I hear your voice on my machine.
When I'm on my bed, frozen, but thinking that your voice will be a,
Preface to the message that you'll leave -
Because I know you're better than this. And I'm so tired.
You slipped through my hands like the sand that fell thorugh our hour glass.
We're so out of time. Can I call you?
I want to call you, because things were so different last year.
I stand still; a wave of my hand couldn't stop you.
Should I be chasing you down, off the porch we had to leave,
Because it got too cold? (Should I leave this house?)
Through the garden with the lions' teeth that bloom just like you will.
Trip on the sidewalk where you walked me home, because I am so tired.

68

Completely Off-Topic / I have this statement. I have this question.

« on: April 05, 2004, 11:56:26 am »

We have a crackhead Math teacher, Mrs. Bush, who lives by a dumpster (nice) where Frito-Lay dumps the surplus of shit that isn't sold or has gone bad. She brings this stuff into us, claiming that it's safe and fine, and "It was boxed up and sealed. There's nothing wrong with it," regardless of the fact that it's stale.

She is a purple woman.

So, today, she brought in three or four boxes of Salt and Vinegar chips (which are nasty, but we should be grateful; however, we're not). We, rather than paying attention to the purple lady, had a very in-depth conversation on the redundancy of "Salt and" in the name of these chips.

So, my question, friends, is if potato chips already have salt on them, why aren't Salt and Vinegar chips just called Vinegar chips? Is the added "Salt" necessary?

69

Creative Endeavors / Deafening Thoughts

« on: April 03, 2004, 03:25:43 pm »

What? I don't know why, but I can't understand you.
If you hold on now, I'll run home and clean my conscience again,
Just hold on now.
I died in every place I looked for you, and you were never there.
And I don't know why, but I dont want to understand you.
What you're saying is far too true and revealing for me.
It's these Spring nights when I fall asleep thinking of you,
Because a year ago, I was with you and I was fine.
Let me take some time, and you'll let me say your name again.
Yeah, we can start over. And we'll be fine.
It'll be okay, then, just let me show you.
I don't know why, but I don't want to understand you.
I won't forget you. I'll carve you in the palm of my hand.
You'll always be with the little part of me you've left for me to keep.
I won't forget you.
I won't forget you, when you're gone.

70

Polls / Do the people on Full House have accents?

« on: April 01, 2004, 12:41:32 pm »

Well?

71

Polls / Has anyone been to Kentucky?

« on: March 30, 2004, 08:27:42 pm »

Even if you've only driven through, have you been here?

72

Polls / Do your parents smoke?

« on: March 24, 2004, 09:38:23 pm »

Hmmm?

My faja smokes cigars, but not often times (my new saying, start using it). Neither my father nor my mother smokes cigarettes.

What about you?

73

Creative Endeavors / The Phone's Hung Up

« on: March 24, 2004, 09:20:20 pm »

Do you hear my voice whe you try to sleep?
Like those Spring nights when we sang to each other, and we,
Filled up every second with something we'd lived for.
And when you get up and you undress,
Just to redress into something new,
Do you wish that I was there to tell you how great the night was,
Because I spent it with you?
And when you get to your car and it starts to rain,
Do you wonder if it's raining where I am?
It's pouring where I am.
When you sit at work and you're bored to death,
But look at the phone, convinced that I will call you,
To better your day do you realize how far I'm away?
When you get back home and sit by yourself,
With a box of letters and a burning match,
Do you wish I was still at home?
When you say good-night to your TV set,
Or the lighter by the cigarettes,
You swore you'd never smoke again,
But you got nervous.
Do you regret being weak and losing your touch?
You've lost your touch.
Do you hear my voice when you try to sleep?
Like those Spring nights when we sang to each other, and we,
Filled up every second with something we'd lived for.

74

Completely Off-Topic / Where's the soul I want to know? New York City's evil . . .

« on: March 23, 2004, 01:55:09 pm »

What are some of your favorite lines from songs?

75

Creative Endeavors / It's Just Another Paper Cut

« on: March 21, 2004, 02:28:18 pm »

The white sky bleeds Spring air as white as snow.
Don't you hate the irony in eveything that's happening.
Like breaking the mirror you looked into,
To make sure you weren't distorted.
I told you, you never could be.
And hell, broken glass won't help,
Nor will a collage of your face.
The antiquity of these thoughts is anything but priceless.
The couch has been my home.
My guitar has been my artificial life,
Since you took mine, which was genuine.
How expensive can we get?
How expensive can we get?
Repentance is all I want from you,
And 'til I get it, I won't relax,
Because without the cleansing of my veins,
I know I can't go on again.
It's too dark and humid and cold and wet in this desolate morgue.
So ask yourself, "What's gone wrong?"
"What's happening or going on?"
Because the fact that I couldn't answer any of those has impailed me.
And I can't go on. I'm still wondering what's happening,
And what I've lost, and what's happening.
I don't know who I am.
I've dug deep inside my mind, but I still can't find a remaining splinter,
From the part of me that you burned down.
I don't care how you're doing.
I don't care if you didn't stay.
Isn't it obvious? You didn't stay.
You won't stay, and I don't know who I am.
The paper cut me up my arm,
And it was white as the sky used to be.
I'm bleeding.
What's happening to me?