|Current mood:|| bitchy|
|Current music:||Metallica - "Shoot me again"|
all my heroes are dead, they died in my head...
i can see into a thousand eyes, but every smile hides a blod-faced lie. call this the quiet life, the inevitable ambulance of apathetic existence. the hilarious lights and frantic pacing. as the streets run slick with rain and we are all busy crashing our cars. (a coroner falls asleep everynight with a smile on his face.) the chaos is regulated in a daily pill, the ortho tri-cyclen of medicated prevention. and we are all busy with the tract marks and bruises, starving for the next bet to get through one day. so she's a fair weather fuck, and you're a rainy day friend, and there the both of you are gilded porn stars, making late night sex debuts at nine a.m. we try to impress. we are impressed by our tries. and the domestic silence is unceremoniously shattered as you realize you can no longer distinguish the moments between work, dinner, and bed. call this the quiet life, as the medics try to revive us, but we are all busy selling our souls for adrenaline and crash. for stock in neosporin. for one brief revelation. thus the inevitable puppets with painted-on smiles. we can call this, the quiet life, but your cell phone is running out of minutes...
so i take my face and bash it into a mirror, it doesn't even bother to hurt. cut me free, precious poison. i am the puppet and you pull the fucking strings. now hang by one.