sometimes i just think about you.
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Hi everybody at SongMeanings who is even a little bit poetically inclined.
I wanted to let you know that National Poetry Month will soon be upon us.
That means National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) will also rise with the first fools and spring flowers of the coming lunar cycle.
Please be warned that I intend to inflict SERIOUS poetastery on you ... yes - you.
Stay tuned to the psychic mind-reading radio for further poetic updates.
Over and out in on !
Someone noted at Rosebuds' "Blue Bird" entry that the lyrics all over the internet for the song are inaccurate. I'd hazard that most of the lyrics everywhere are wrong simply because many other sites use engines to collate new lyrics on the internet, many originating from transcription at SongMeanings by its users. So when the lyrics are wrong here, the bad gene gets carried through.
To correct this in the past, users could readily edit the lyrics in the SM database, but the many licensing agreements that now govern many lyrics prevent edits from going through. Instead, what we get is a note informing us that the correction has been submitted to the lyrics' owners for approval, even though SM is unable to guarantee that anything will come out of it.
i guess i'm feeling empty. i thought you could fill me but you aren't. it just feels like you're constantly pulling away from me and im not sure if i can do it much longer. i don't need everything. just a little something will do. why can't you just give me that? its not asking much. not nearly as much as i could be asking. how do people live? i don't really get it. its so much work. trying to attain everything that makes you "happy". i'm just already over it. why bother when not trying to be happy is else is easier?
the snow is beautiful, magnified by the bright winter sun. i crouch down and start packing together white crystals with my bare hands, letting the cold sting. i pack it together until i can start rolling it up the snow-covered hill. i push and push and push and devote my entire attention to this sparkling, increasingly heavy creation. i reach the top of the hill with a gleaming white boulder just up to my hips. i shock my lungs with a sharp gasp of freezing wind as the sun slowly disappears behind thick, grey clouds. i nudge my efforts down the hill as they consume ravenously, growing wildly, rolling wildly. the snow is dirty here from the displaced parking lot slush and it coats and merges with my work.
Greetings, all you Song Meanies.
(my wife does not have a problem with this either...)
BTW - have you noticed the incredible amount of activity at her thread here ?
PS: did you know that it was her voice in Prince of Egypt?
Y'all aint nuthin but SIGNIFYIN MONKEYS. I had it with you.
Give me back my CDs and my stereophonic record player.
Give me back my first edition of Boccaccio. Give me back my memories of black & white TV. Give me back my Vietnam War. Give me back my Model A Ford.
Time is approaching its fullness and the dreaded moon of doom is rising.
Buy your ticket out of the monkeyhouse HERE.
What to do when the person who nearly destroyed you is the same person that introduced you to many of your favorite songs? Do you avoid listening to them altogether because their meanings have been replaced by nightmares? Seems like a lose-lose either way.
It's looking more and more like 3 people writing almost all of the boring journal posts here at Song Meanings under a variety of pseudonyms.
However I, Nomad Monad, DEMAND recognition as The Most Boring Writer.
You'll never touch me so don't even TRY.
Don't even bother dipping your quill again, you mere drip on the mildewed scroll of antediluvian parchment, you cuneiform Cunégonde, you proto-Canaanite pottery fragment, you keyboarding failed clown and archeological relic unworthy of preservation in a third-rate underfunded Albanian museum...
I, and I alone, dragged myself up from the protoplasmic slime to BORE you.
I transitioned from amphibian to anthropoid before your mama even MET the postman. I stood upright upon the bloody battleground of evolutionary struggle and SELECTED MYSELF (naturally). Now pass that banana right here.
Behold: The Missing Link
i'll begin with a note: hey buggie92, how about you make your own journal instead of writing a patronising novel on mine? i don't see what you being a socially awkward outsider has anything to do with me. i have a lot of good friends, but i have some pretty serious mental issues that i'm dealing with. don't worry, i'm highly functional and i'm quite successful. this is where i write to vent and shriek about my issues because i don't feel comfortable putting the burden on my friends. my problems are something i can only work through with a psychologist.
anyway, i don't want anyone's advice and you didn't even give much advice. you just talked about yourself and told me that the way i felt was wrong. so, go ahead and write in your own journal about your issues because i don't care about the experiences that you so passive-aggressively denoted. you're welcome to comment on my journals, but know that nothing you say is of any significance to me.
this is the only rebuttal i will provide, so i suggest you find someone else to antagonize.
today was a good day. my dog and i merrily crunched along the snowed-in path that curled through the park. i walked through clouds of my breath and ran my tongue over my cracked lips futilely. this would be a good time to wish for a different season, but i like the cold. i like the way my fingertips sting and my eyes water from glacial breezes. i don't need the summer air. i like it when the outside matches my inside. i should be sad because i have an incurable mental disorder, but i don't want to listen to drivel about potentialities anymore.
i'm not happy to be sick, but it's not sick to be happy.
i break off a piece of fruit for my dog and his eyes light up as he hops to catch it in his mouth. i watch him engulf the fruit and then stare up at me with his sweet puppy eyes. i like the simple life. one day i'll visit europe and join a glass-blowing class. but today my hobby is eating apples with my dog.
this is my first entry. much wow.
today, i just made this account for songmeanings and i so wanna tell other people the meanings behind he is we's beautiful songs. rachel taylor is a very inspiring singer and i don't know why some people say that she changed for the worst just because she got tattoos and piercings and a haircut. i think she's beautiful the way she is. she's being herself. that's enough for being a wonderful and inspiring person. i wish the world would listen to her songs and her songs with the band. :>
When I cracked the code, he said
And my smile was smug as July.
Meanwhile, my friend Cynth slunk her way over and asked to talk to me privately.
"I saw Aaaaaron at the race today, and he saw me, and I don't think I can-"
188.8.131.52.5. I counted to five before I cut her off. I had work to do. There was a time when Cynth's drama was an addicting distraction therapy for me. But the girl has the emotional complexity of a gum wrapper. As do the guys she slurps up. Except Andy who genuinely scared me as he was the type of guy who could talk to you into shaving off your own eyebrows.
There's another girl who also works at ITS who I'm actually interested in befriending. She has eyes like a cat that were beginning to twitch when Cynth queued up The Disney Movie Compilation station on Pandora for the 4th day in a row. She commented on my Trent Reznor tshirt and said "you're okay." and I was like, "yeah I'm okay. I'm excellent. I'm the best motherfucking coder in this business." I didn't say it out loud, but I liked that I earned her respect. My job makes me simmer.
Shout when you wanna get off the ride.
i'm six and i can't open the mini carton of chocolate milk they gave me to go with the unsalted popcorn. it's movie night at the shitty public school in the low-income neighbourhood we lived in when we first immigrated to canada. i struggle for a little longer until a kind-eyed chaperone takes the carton from me, turns it around, and opens the spout from the correct side. i think the movie was tarzan but i remember more about the milk carton than i do about the film. most of my childhood was pretty sad and lonely but i really liked that memory of someone picking up my problem, turning it around, and fixing it for me.
sometimes i think i'm permanenty damaged because of all the excess cortisol that i've experienced over the years. i think i'm to blame because i don't relate well to people - i don't like myself, so how can i even begin to like anyone else? most of my relationships were based on my idealized perception of people rather than reality. i don't think i can call myself lonely if there's nobody i long to talk to. i'm writing here because i like to and i feel like it's a way for me to communicate with people without actually having to give a shit about anything they say. no, i completely understand that i'm kind of a selfish, ego-centric person but, after pretending to be a nice person all day, it's nice to take off the mask and be real.
mostly i crave non-existence because i feel like a malfunctioning product waiting to be replaced. i don't care about religion. in fact, i feel offended when people to tell me to trust in god. when you look at it from my nihilistic perspective, you might be able to understand that the idea of believing in some omnipotent deity "that knows best" is insulting.
i've always had trouble bowing to authority and i have even more trouble praying to some imaginary thing that supposedly made up a bunch of rules for me to follow (mostly concerned with what i do with my vagina) because otherwise i'll go to hell where i'll suffer for all of eternity. it's actually hilarious when you think about it. it's like a group of toddlers got together and decided to write a rule book, "follow these rules and you'll get to go to the bestest place forever, but if you don't you go the worstest place ever!" what a joke. i went to a catholic school and i'm friends with some religious people so, of course, i'm perfectly accepting of their beliefs and i would never tell them that i secretly think they're really stupid.
at least i know who to call if i ever feel like recruiting for a pyramid scheme.
The drunken thoughtlessness of an evening can seem so easily appealing. So easily achieved. Mistakes, oh mistakes, never have I made such conscious mistakes.
After a bottle of wine, maybe a few more. The music was suited, intense then changing. Light hearted. I said “Lets swim!” and promptly undressed myself, you didn’t hesitate either and soon we were diving, swimming until there was nothing. Until you were nothing, until they were nothing. All I could do was swim, as if my life depended on it. I liked the burning, the too cold summer water swishing past my ears, filling the gaps between my fingers.
Your voice pulled me back, slashing through my head, “Get out of the fucking water, are you mad? It is freezing.”
Eyes blood shot, chlorine induced, someones shirt wrapped tightly around my shoulders. Scrabble came next. Then Lee got sick, crying, she needed to be warm and in bed. “Here drink this, its water, you’ll be just fine, I love you too..” Scrabble continued. We continued. Glimpses, and me secretly hoping that you saw as I looked away.
More wine. I need to pee, ended up swigging Ret’s whisky in the bathroom. It’s not ok. Burns the back of my throat, as the tears sting my eyes. This is ok. New dose of bravery.
The grass outside and a newly lit cigar. Counting 1 2 3.. GO! nothing. Mike leaves. Right, this is what I wanted, it’s what I had hoped of this evening, conscious.
You won’t stop saying my name, eventually I don’t know whether you’re crying or laughing. Kissing. Under the blanket of this conscious mistake I so wilfully made. Stop stop stop. No, sweaty palms on my back, my shoulders, my tummy, my neck. Teeth, grazes, grass burns.
“Get up, let us go inside, it’s raining, Ret might come out?” Stumbling you get up, curling your toes over the edge, unconsciously wrapping my arms around your waist, you pissing. Embarrassed I go inside on my own.
“You’re crying? Why? Please stop, please please please” Wrapping your body around me, you’re not breathing. I’m still too drunk to make a sense of realisation.
Tremmor. Clutching your sweaty palms. Realisation. Run. “Ret! Wake up. He’s not breathing.” Run. Ret places one hard ‘WACK!’ across your chest. Breath. “Let’s go Bro, time for bed”
Climb into my conscious mistake. Have sex with Ret. Wake up 5am. Facing a shitty headache.
I don’t feel terrible, should I?
I feel ok. Please remember. Don’t remember.
“Like you said, nothing happened. Ret’s like a brother to me, and I know you love him, we can’t ruin that.”
Please ruin it, my life oh please do.
although I'm not entirely sure why, I think I needed a hiatus from writing, so I decided to take an internship on an organic farm in the woods. ftr, I study lit and stuff. I'm no agroecologist and have a pathetic lack of green thumb, but for some reason whenever I try to fall asleep at night after long day on the farm, I toss and turn because I know a part of my soul stays there when I leave. there are tree orchards everywhere, soil to saturate with carbon and secrets (I've been informed it's nutritious for the plants), and no limit to free vegitables. today I sat for a fucking hour watching bees pollinate mustard seed flowers. the gal that showed me the ropes told me her name was "river" and I accidentally rolled my eyes and I sad, "like phoenix?" and then she rolled her eyes, and said "I'm just messin, it's actually kelly." Kelly is like the real life version of one of the girls from harvest moon: plaid shirts, braided crowns, chai tea in mason jars, smells perpetually like orange blossoms, which drives me crazy, because they aren't even in season. I mean she's more than a trope, I'm sorry. everyone is more than a trope. I happen to know that she has thing goin with one of my good friends and that she gives rides to drunk strangers. as she works she sings to the kale crops and the brocoli and the cabbage. the other day, I brought out a stereo and a bunch of cds. I'm going to do this science experiment, grade school style, in which I play different genres of music for different pots of the same plant and measure their growth. currently, I've got some reggae going, some alt rock, some beethoven, some drake, and an old dashboard confessional album which I'm counting as "emo." I've got this scientist thing down pat. there's this other intern named gary, and when I met him, I knew right away what he grew. he asked me if I wanted to buy and I hesitated, because I'm trying to sober up.
when I got home today, my housemate was pretty stoned and entranced by a live stream of the vancouver aquarium jellyfish cam. will have to try that at some point, maybe in my british canon poetry class where I sit in the back row for two hours and try to not let my thoughts race eachother to tangles.
sometimes. I don't know. sometimes I am baffled when girls at parties ask who I like to read, then proceed to interrupt with "wait, do you like bukowski?" what about me do they associate with a dirty old man? I mean I like bukowski a bit, but he also got a lot wrong with life. god, don't get me started on kerouac. I frankly don't understand how a girl can read kerouac and sincerely like him.
last week I went to a poetry slam and this guy got up and spat about the lumbersexual aesthetic. I mean hypermasculinity is not a revolutionary topic to write a slam poem about, but what this guy was saying felt like a bear trap clamped around my heart.
on the way home we somehow witnessed a huge car accident and had to be interviewed by the cops. in my area the police are utterly asinine and I was scared because a lot of people died, but didn't feel like I could admit this to Lexie who was kneeling on the ground, shivering. when they finally let us off, it was 2 am and I was warm with anger and my retinas were blurring. I carried Lexie home and when she curled into me like a leaf, yeah, I felt pretty manly. I tried not to have bad dreams that night., like the one about the boy I saw on the cover of Newsweek when I was in 5th grade. it was from the Bosnian war and his face had been hit by artillery fire, and it was mangled and his eyes were obliterated and his nose was gone, and his mouth was a slant. when I wake up from those dreams, my nose is always burning with that smoke that signals that you're going to cry. how many times I've extracted myself from a girl sleeping beside me and sat on the toilet in the bathroom, breathing hard.
I don't know if I even feel like posting this anymore. I was okay when I started writing and now I'm in a shit mood. like, woe is fucking me. here is your Tinder date, sipping craft beer at an underground bar with sad eyes, a hyperpermasculinety complex and an unrealised dream of living in an isolated woodland shack. congratulations. you're dating the reincarnate of henry david thoroeu.