Route Four

This constant ringing makes me sick. Let's just cut the coated wire of connection, because the whole world doesn't need to be held at our mercy. They leave like the strangers of a subway train. These strangers only travel to get from point a to point b, just like you. I made the mistake of talking to one of these strangers, getting to know one of these strangers. It's getting loud in here; the spark created by the metal on metal contact echoes throughout this train of mine. You pull the bell, it's your stop. Your icy cold stare eats through me as you become one of those strangers. Just like them, you got off at your point b never to be heard from again. Why? People are fleeting. Moments are fleeting. Life is fleeting. Maybe she wants to go, and if she does than I don't need her. Maybe I want to shove the moments we shared into her torn suitcase, but memories are something I can't erase. Maybe life is fleeting, but I'm not going to sit back and watch it slip away from me. You might be gone, but the subway doesn't stop just because you did.

The conductor of route four can't be seduced without a ticket.

Weekends

Those tires are talking now
She can feel the vibrations
And creases are stained yellow

She's in downtown London
The stereos are screaming
And her body temperature's rising

Home is something distant
She is slipping away
And these miles battle years

Everything looks the same here
Everything is so empty

Towers are planted
Signal them
Towers are planted
Signal the rulers of the sky

One, two, three
The red eye is blinking

Towers are planted
Save them
Towers are planted
Save the rulers of the sky

Watch as the pretty lights dance
Red, green, blue, white
They paint this place

The television is talking again
Look at those dirty shoes
And look at their dirty smiles

I want him
I need him
I miss him

It's the weekend
Let's not celebrate it

Weekends just aren't the same without you

Stitches

You're her friend, princess
Hide the truth behind your lies
And face the world with your torn down image

Beat her down, princess
Flaunt what she can't
And take what she has

Center of attention, princess
It's time for another quick fix
And he means nothing to you

You're so fictitious
You could break glass

Suck it up, princess
Let's peel back the layers of your plastic skin
And let's see if you feel something

Break yourself, princess
Cut yourself open
And watch yourself bleed

Don't stitch yourself up though, princess
Lessons in suicide are nothing new for you
And you will never be the same girl from four years ago

Take your pretty pink nails to the tiled walls, filthy whore

Neon Messenger

He is my neon messenger
He is the sign
He is the artist

My slumber is stained with little thoughts of misconstruction

Travel voices, travel
Swim through the static network manufactured by strangers
In this static network sculpted of strangers
You will find me

Drown me voices, drown me
Cut their lifeline
Make them flatline
And leave them silent

It burns, blinds, and incinerates
My mistakes ignite you
And my mistakes ignite me

Your mind is stained with little thoughts of misconstruction

It's so cold in this place
It's so empty in this house
Let the spark flicker
Let the spark spread

I go right
You fall behind
She listened to your silence that whispered weakness
She listened to your silence that whispered love

Maps love you, my neon messenger

Never Dance Upon His Grave, It's Not Polite

Mr. Grave Digger walk me slowly, let your lantern burn bright. How am I suppose to trust you though, Mr. Grave Digger? Today you kept his secret. The car in the parking lot should have been bathed in rain, because you aren't allowed to steal her tears. The white lines were the only division of direction between her and my haunted past; her stolen tears should have washed them clean. Perhaps if the raindrops chose to dance, their illusion would have been enough to divert her attention from the left. I suppose we'll never know, it's too late now. Wrong turn after wrong turn, why does fate have such a cold touch, Mr. Grave Digger? There was no rain. There was nothing cascading upon the smooth glass protecting her from the real world, from the same seemingly unknown surroundings of her past. There was nothing letting the glass bleed, letting the glass clot, letting the glass heal. The cold-blooded fate would never spill her tears to protect innocence; self-sacrifice is its only desired quality.

You always intended for innocence to be broken, Mr. Grave Digger. He was just borderline a silhouette, a silhouette corrupt. His skeleton was constructed with such detail, with paint so angrily thrown upon him, she was forced to remember. It seems as though she isn't allowed to forget. I remember him well. I remember what it felt like when the truth finally seeped through the barrier which blinded me from his reality, so many wasted months just a blur. I let his ink bleed and I let his ink fade, but the ink can only bleed until the paper heals. The ink can only fade until the paper attempts to reconstruct. She is attempting to reconstruct with the pieces of past destruction, and her little soul is unaware this paper will always read the same. I remember everything; he has made a home within my cobwebbed memory of ancient business. If I can remember everything so well, why can't I remember to forget? I'll be alright.

I've come to realize, one skeleton can have only so many graves.

Infected Retrospect

I rest peacefully among strangers, just as the black rests so peacefully among the ivory. Strangers don't know, and with them I create a distance melodic hum; it's the soundtrack to the unknown which makes its existence so beautiful. Dancing silhouettes trapped within mirrors die behind my eyes, but they'll never know and this thought puts my mind at ease. It's a twisted comfort one can't really explain and can only understand through experience. This whole idea creates and environment so serene, yet so dangerous because just as they don't know, I know nothing of them. Love danced upon my fingertips; among those strangers I was unaware and so was he. Who know I would be the one to fall in love with fiction, a mere dressed up image of fantasy?

We are the insatiable. We, the children of god, show no mercy. Within the unknown lurks a mysterious desire to become aware, but we never really are truly aware, are we? Our lies cover truth and our secrets cover lies. At first glance, we take in what we see and believe what we subconsciously wish was the truth. Automatic judgment is a sickening creation of desire. We then trap those wishes in empty bottles, bottles that will be smashed and broken before our eyes once we become aware. They will spill our dreams, our secret wishes upon the concrete that have become a part of our corrupt human nature - a daily ritual we all mindlessly follow. Hush now, don't scream. The burn of passion is merely a disguise which masks the burn of pain - only after the fire does the ruthless wind bring the ashes to sting our eyes. What we as individuals believe to be reality blinds us, it only allows us to see the exterior being put up and never look deeper to see the truth. The pages of our story, our past, are now stained with everything we hate. The lights of our city crawl from the sky, one by one into the unknown darkness of hatred and fear. These lights are the bottled wishes, wishes with which we painted our sold out futures among the streets of silent romance. In the end, we're alone. We're always alone, and the unknown darkness is our future.

Love is absolute self-destruction.

The Smiling Moon Never Knew

Summer - it's the indefinable. It's love and hate, it's pain and comfort. It's the nights when the stars paint her weeping widow bright and the days she wastes away in a utopia of bliss. She was always shy; she would let her feelings linger in waiting for the vacancy of his heart. He was a beautiful lie, she was his beautiful disaster. It's a strong drug, a drug unmistakable to the summer girl's soul. A drug so dangerously intoxicating that as it fades away with it's season she can feel the sting on every inch of her fragile porcelain skin. A summer fling screams romance is dead, but she would give everything to feel it again.

It was late, the road glistening from the rain. All she could hear were his footsteps echoing though her mind. They'd lay beneath the stars, watching them stain the night sky with beauty. Space's own night lights and satellites created a glimmer off rain drops astray throughout the field - it would cascade upon their young teenage souls. He would tell her everything she needed to hear, but she'd heard it all before. His empty conversation is detectable by a mind of great wisdom and blinded by the poison of love.

Her eyes wondered, catching glimpse of a plane. The stars mapped out the sky; where were they going? She wished she was aboard that midnight flight to the unknown, the unknown sounded enchanting. Escape is her fairytale. Flashback: romantic oblivion, this ink set her fate. She was curious, wondered if the silhouette strangers that were faintly outlined within the windows had lived her story. Dimly lit airplanes against the backdrop of the night sky had always been intentinally created for the runaway. You could see Hollywood in her eyes, but airports are for dreamers. The maze of terminals was never meant to go on forever in this illusioned reality. It's not time to dream, the comfort of compazine is just a fantasy. Welcome to your first mistake, child.

Hello outer space, sometimes we all need a holiday.