There's nothing to write about anymore.

Im tired of making up my own songs.

Id rather sing someone elses'.

Off

Off

Off

Sick (I wrote your favorite song on a bus, while I was late to band practice.)

Im sick

So sick

Oh, so sick.

Im sick of love

And Im sick of hate

Im tired of you and of waking up late

Im bored to death

I dont care at all

I've got nothing left

What life?

Worth living?

Im sick

And tired

So sick

So tired

Problem Child

I have to write lyrics for 3 new songs by saturday.

Show with Brilliant Colors at the Cairo September 26th

We still dont have a permanent bassist.

AAAAHHHhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Meat Magic

Im bored of myself and I'm sick of you

I'm tired of having nothing to do.

Empty pockets

Empty head

Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up dead!

I am everything I've come to hate;

Well it's too late

Yeah, It's too late

I'm banging my head against the wall and I can't explode at all!

E-X-P-L-O-D-E

Yeah, I cant explode at all

I'm banging my head against the wall and I can't explode at all!

I hate myself

Nothin' in my head

I hate my self

'Cause I'm brain dead

I hate myself

And it's too late

Yeah it's too late

I'm too late

I'm banging my head against the wall and I can't explode at all!

E-X-P-L-O-D-E

Yeah, I cant explode at all

I'm banging my head against the wall and I can't explode at all!

No outlet

No outlet

Man I wish I could just forget

No outlet

No outlet

No outlet

Baby Teeth

When we were young, we were told we could do anything when we got older.

When we were young, we were told that we were special. Unique.

Laying in the blackish ephemeral void of half sleep, realizing it was all a hoax; I lay with my back to a man sputtering neon pink and blue electric spit while he snores. I can hear the phlegm gurgling around his throat, and in an effort to keep my own sinuses clear, I work my way across the crumb and dirt filled bed and hang my limbs over the edge. Lacking warmth, he slithers closer.

Disgusted in both of us, I open my eyes in a pathetic attempt at seeking solace. As if peace was something visual. All I see are pulsating conglomerate clumps of rainbow fuzz, undulating in the bereft light of the ceiling. I think I need to eat more carrots. Dirty rags hang from both our windows to shield our dreams from the morning sun. Anyone who has ever had makeshift curtains knows about what I like to call "night light". Although it was two in the morning, somehow a soft blue hue radiated through the sheet and crept silently over us, while the torn rag covering the paned portal at the foot of our bed disseminated the same frequency of a copper wave. They met in the middle of our comforter and hugged each other, creating a maroon complexion around my ankles. If only I could step into this illuminated gate. An ingress into... something else. Please, anything else.

Am I a failure because this society, this selfish money driven culture views me to be by definition of their standards, or have I really truly failed?

I have goals, in-obtainable ones, sure. But I have them.

It feels hopeless. To navigate around quite aimlessly, moving from temporary job to temporary job. Growing only sideways. Don't get me wrong, I don't ever want to grow up. But I fear each skyline I inherit is pushing me closer and closer to it.

This is what keeps me up at night. Trivial bullshit that does more harm than good. I let my eyes soften on the amassment of quiet secondary light and try to see only grey in my minds eye. For some reason when I remember the blankness of the asylum it helps force me into the sister-death of sleep. I close my eyes again, hearing the stagnant outer-versal buzz of some electronic device that was left on, and re-construct, for the infinite time the corner of ward 207.

Only in shades of white, do the gobs of concrete meld together. I can see the thin line where the south and eastern walls meet. So much paint has been applied to the porous material over the years, it stands there like a glossy cushion. Little spiderwebbed cracks, and chips distract me from the intended goal of completely washing out my imagination for the night.

A sweaty hand smacks at me from the left. The white walls fizz away. Then hastily billow back once my companion has stopped his salmon-esque flailing. My brain focuses again on the grey, much like its own. Just as I do every night, I meditate on never again enlivening my eyes in the morning. The prospect of this helps me to waft into another even darker, dreamless sleep.

Aaron Cometbus - Double Duce. 2.

"I called him "Little Suicide". Not just because he was short and had a deathwish, but because, in really celebrating and embracing life, you have to sort of embrace death too, or at least recognize the on-going no win battle against it. Every day living is closer to death; A little suicide."