The Stars, [In your eyes] They are, Burning You alive.
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[I don't know where I'm going.]
Especially with this.

A vicious romantic's heart is always broken. Pitty the world, the human condition- sad little world. Maybe if I didn't let my heart be strung up or strung out and permantenly sewn into my sleeve, I'd be better off.

I'll admit, I've let cliche romances and encounters be conjured up and let wander through my brain till the butterflies in my stomach made me sick. And I'll admit that I wish one would still happen- "climb through my window and suprise me, yeah?"

I've often wondered if this makes me illuisioned on love. On the world. On the way things should and should not work. That at time fate is completely unbelievable and all together nonexistant. That even know, as I listen to the stedy clatter-hum of a train through my open window, I should be asking myself what the hell am I thinking. Why do I enjoy the suffocating burn in my chest as I feel for others and ache over stupid little things I have absolutly no conrol over. [An artist weeps for the whispering of the wind as it breathes on the fragile petal of a flower.]

I've never experienced a particularlly unhinging and unnervingly tragic moment in my life- that it left me completely uninhibited and wasted. [Things have come close.] And I've wondered if experiencing such a moment would return the cynicality I've always thought it would. That it would make me think less of love, more weary to the world and unidealistic.

I'm not naive, don't think me of that- I've experienced love, the want of it, the feel of it, the tangible things that sometimes come, a hope that the love you give out is being accepted; recieved, by the one person you want it to most. And I find it sad that once you've had a taste of it you want more even when it makes you completely nauseated and wishing there was another way to dig yourself out from that ditch, cursing yourself and asking why you would even put yourself into that situation again.

I think it's because as a race we, even when denying it, have a sense and desire for a certain fix, that intoxicates not only the body, but the mind and the orphic soul as well. Something that otherwise wouldn't have or shouldn't a tangible consequence in our eyes. So we build ourselves up just to get that high, -leave the earth, to fall back down on jaded wings and false pretentions.

I feel sad for the world- the colors are fading everyday. It's beauty itsn't what people want or what they make from it. That we are wasting its youth, turning its timelessness into definity. It's sugared veins have run dry and its glittering smile returns no more. Because of our own processes we are afraid, cowering behind our filthy mistakes and unsubstantial excuses considered sin. [A reckless youth comes to terms with his subsequential actions for a conflicting frame of mind- unsound.]


But what are you worrying about, these are just the ramblings of an entirely vicious romantic.