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OBSIDIANBUTTERFLY
Age: 18
Location: Imperial, Missouri
Joined On: Jun 22, 2006
Occupation: student
saybifromhell
waythefuckoverthere
Rockindie21
Toronto, Ontario, CANADA
Conversing My Failures
St Louis
Hey! My name's Jennifer, and I'm horrible at this kind of stuff, but here it goes....I'm 17. I'm ready to go somewhere, anywhere besides this house...
I like most kinds of rock music, you could probably say I'm addicted because I'm always listening to music or watching music videos...
People ask me why i don't like a lot of rap music and i figured out why--there aren't any guitars!
I like to write stuff: songs, stories, whatever I feel like....
And of course, I could always use more friends....lol! but really i have the greatest friends i could ever ask for, and they are way closer than my family will ever be. if you're lucky, maybe you can be one of my friends lol jk jk i'll be lucky if any of u want this freak as a friend LOL
Oh, and if anybody wants my AIM screen name, its musicsheresy. I also have an MSN s/n it's agiftforfiction@hotmail.com [[that's a fear before song in case you don't know]] I've been really busy lately so if i don't get back to ya i'm sorry! but feel free to message/comment me
Love, Jenn
Endless Screams [[my poem]]
Darkness falls.
Her eyes, aglow with streetlights,
Clearly show his reflection. He calls to her.
She turns away.
Silent twilight.
She keeps walking, can't stop, or else.
Caustic memories have stolen her smile.
She continues her journey.
Dusky dawn.
Her heartbeat falters, stops.
He mourns a love once lost, can't bear the pain.
She fades away.
Time stops.
Death has robbed him of her.
The allure of mystery is gone. His eyes are dark and cold.
She screams in his thoughts.
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
"Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Chops"
because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's
and he had to ask his fater what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it
Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it 'Autumn'
because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
and the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it
Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it 'Innocence: A Question'
because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly
That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it 'Absolutely Nothing'
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen"
Gone To Vinegar: A Meditation On Certain Depression [[Sammy Winston]]
[[I found this in an issue of Amp magazine]]
"I let the beast in too soon. I don't know how to live without my hand on his throat; I fight him always and still. Oh darling, it's so sweet, you think you know how crazy I am."-Fiona Apple, Fast As You Can
"Once, if my memory serves me well, life was a poisoned banquet where every heart destroyed itself, where every wine had gone to vinegar. Me, these days, I'm just a skinny, weak fuck like Christ on the cross, with lurking horrors suddenly manifesting themselves in unprecedented and appalling ways. Life catches up to you and you're just fucked. Too far up the river, one might say, in a histrionic but fitting manner. You realize that you've become something that you never wanted to be and aren't even granted the luxury of lamentation because you are so caught up in the frenzy of self-immolation. The bastard son of sleepless nights, somewhere between the zeal of midnight and the redemption of daybreak, that dismal recess of a chasm where you are left to have your bones picked clean by unmanageable demons. You confess raw declarations in a sleepy, shaky voice, only to remember that you are utterly alone. You are left to suffer and you are far too entrenched in this illogical despair to dig your way out, so you dig in for the long haul. You find that your mind and soul have convoluted themselves into something like a bad acid trip that has no remedy and must simply, and regrettably, and practically unimaginable, be ridden out until it passes with the sliver of hope that, when, if, such a tact proves successful, you will emerge relatively unscathed. This is a ridiculous notion though, as you weren't unscathed to begin with, but nonetheless, we press on. And the sad, sick truth of it is that this sort of madness isn't incidental at all, it is a common as bad news and blowjobs. And that, at the rotten base of it, is really what does the damage. Tolls are taken incrementally. Nobody goes up the river in a hurry. It's a slow crawl. All the while, you repeat like a lovelorn mantra that last line from Morrissey's "Maladjusted", the title track of, ironically, that great artist's most maligned work...
There's nothing wrong with you.
There's nothing wrong with you.
There's nothing wrong with you.
A proud but desperate rallying cry for stubborn, stifled, sneering sufferers. And though we may recognize at those moments of loathsome clarity that there is indeed something quite significant wrong with us, even if we are unable to identify its true essence, we will be damned if we ever admit it to our perceived detractors. It isn't a point of pride as much as it is a subconscious spontaneous effect. Some reflexes can be the first drafts of suicide notes.
I often hide behind the deep wound maroon drapes at the windows of my front room, hesitant to face a world I know too well. Not frightened, but weary and wary and maybe waiting, knowing that everyone and everything that has so often betrayed me is just on the other side of those drapes. But that isn't true, not entirely. Those things are just the irritable scab that comes after the wound is made. It's the lurking beast within that is the real fuel; it is the muse for all future despondency. It is from this that springs the awful manifestations. The heart howls: here lives an ill-tempered man. And one would think that as I grow older, I would garner (earn, even) some sort of wisdom that would help make sense of these things. The exact opposite is true though, everything becomes more complicated because, first, there is that much more twine in the ball, further convoluted, and secondly, none of it can be written off as the folly and foils of youth. That luxury has become unavailable.
This ubiquitous doom, clinging to all perception and insight, action and reaction, moments and memories, like the ash clinging to the ruins of an apocalyptic morning after. It isn't an affliction at this point, it's a definition, and that is bother utterly comforting and pathetic. I snicker at these young singers that speak of desolation, you pathetic entry-level depressives, finding words to rhyme with "suicide" because it makes a great copy. Suicide is for the unimaginative. Compete with this pedigree, lightweight. Often, I wake up so preoccupied with misery that my whole system roils with sickness. A thing like bile builds up in the pit of my stomach. I go dizzy, weak. An awful nausea takes over; the hangover of a sober heart. Plenty of four in the morning silences (and four in the afternoon, to be honest) are broken by the ghastly sound of purging. Two knees on the tile, one hand on the basin, and a finger down the throat. Get it all out so that I can sleep. Some people prefer chamomile or transcendental meditation or monster bong hits. Vomitous penance puts the crestfallen soul at fleeting ease. I can only imagine what sort of ragged state my esophagus is in. And the bitch of it is that there isn't enough puke in the world, and these days, the well seems to be drying up. Or the well is overflowing, depending on how you want to twist this pitiful analogy.
Catch a bleak thought and riff on it like a bebop note in a proto-beat jazz joint. Thelonious despair. Perpetual. Endless. They asked the wild one what he was rebelling against and he replied, "what have you got?" The question, "why such morbidity?" isn't answered with the arrogant, "why not?" but rather the defeated, "how not?" These are the sorrows of the young worthless. The solitary life in a crowd of thousands. Smiling or swinging to hide the quivering soul, from who it is being hidden, them or myself, is the telling point that never tells. You find yourself swimming in oceans of unshed tears, and eventually you will drown because nobody can swim forever. There is something there, deep inside, that leads us to this miserable disposition. It isn't terribly tangible though. It isn't as easy as pointing some weeping finger at the uncle who molested you or the daddy that hit you or the divorce of your parents. There are no theses statements in these murky matters, only toil. The rambling diatribe of a paper writer stringing feverish words together and praying for some semblance of sagacity when the sheet is full.
So, you channel. Hammering hideous tendencies into something hopefully interesting, or if not, at least utilitarian. One could deem me a desparist, I imagine. As a writer or artist (how pretentious!) and as a human (how histrionic!), separately but not exclusively and usually mutually appreciative, I am a desparist. I do not celebrate despair; I document it. At best, I try to make sense of it. I certainly am not an escapist. The notion of freedom from this temperament, even though fleeing, is ludicrous above all else. Truth be told, I am a hostage. The bound, weeping child cowering in the locked closet of some pedophilic boogeyman that is depression. Without respite, I am forced to turn terrible fear into terrifying disparagement, intolerant to the machinations of the world (the world both inside and out of my flesh). Such is such; The Mayor of Grit Teeth City, who has wasted too many birthday candle wishes on end times that never came, now left to writhe with dormant demons so suddenly revived and sent reeling in this feeble shell. Am I supposed to rage? Burn? Am I inclined to suck the marrow? Inclined, or destined, or otherwise. Fuck it. Who has the time or energy to suck marrow? These sinister days, I just want to sleep. It gets to the point where the weight of the world puts you on your fucking knees, whether you are in your bedroom, or the middle of the street, or some insignificant place in between. Rimbaud held that if we believe that we are in hell, therefore we are there. But what if hell is all I know? Will it not also be my heaven if I know of no heaven? It is too much to imagine that a hell with no heaven above is no hell and how heavenly is heaven if there is no hell to fear? It all degenerates into the murky swamp of nihilism or the blinding firestorm of folly. If we are quoting dead men with great minds, let me invoke Jean Genet. That old queen once wrote: The only way to escape horror is to bury yourself in it. What sort of escape can one pine for if the warmth of that ugly mucky muck is all we've ever known? If that's the case, well, maybe there's nothing wrong with you.
You convince yourself that you want to be alone, left alone, curled up in some cold, dark place. You only want it because it is all you actually have. You convince yourself that you appreciate. The romance of misery. Truth be told, there is no romance to it. There is only it and the garish garnish you apply to it to gussy up its true, pathetic nature.
An anecdote that pertains, somehow: I remember one semester being given the reading list for a particular class. The works were listed by title and then followed by the type of work, be it a novel or a play or a short story or a poem. The majority were works of Vladmir Nabokov. So the list read: The Defense, a novel. The Gift, a novel. Despair, a novel. And that struck me as quite funny. I imagine it appearing not as part of a list but a paragraph. It would read: blah blah blah a novel, Despair. A novel despair. And I love that, because if you can remove yourself from the immediate, shed the shackles of the sickness for just a moment, you will generally find that all this despair is novel. If you weren't busy being destroyed by it, you might just be able to find it novel. If you weren't busy being destroyed by it, you might just be able to find it novel. And then you would recognize that there was nothing wrong with you. But it is destroying you.
There's nothing wrong with you.
There's nothing wrong with you.
There's nothing wrong with you."
---Sammy Winston
Ludo is a-fucking-mazing!
checkkkkk em out! =] Pretty please? They'll be on some dates for the Warped Tour. and if you cant see them then, then just give em a listen at myspace or purevolume.
john, the sleepwalker
im good :) and thank you we record two mre next week
end
posted Mar 30
john, the sleepwalker
hey my name is john :) im the guitarist
from... www.purevolume.com/wearegodzillayouarejapan
or www.myspace.com/wearegodzillamusic tell me
you think?
posted Mar 27
likeelliot - fanclub
hey, we are
(rol,vali&tim) from austria! our common passion is
music!!! the best way to get to know us better, is to
hear our musik on
posted Jan 15
MY SUBCONSCIUOS MIND SCARES ME
hahaha! i haven\'t talked to you in a while. so,
anything new?
posted Oct 11
THE OUTSIDERS
everything is wrong=/
posted Oct 09
THE OUTSIDERS
haha that sux ive been pretty bad latleyy
posted Oct 03
THE OUTSIDERS
Lol thanks6^^ how have you been??
posted Sep 17
MY SUBCONSCIUOS MIND SCARES ME
i have tons of work to do too! i am a freshmen in
highschool sadly. : ( but it isnt as bad as people say
it is. but im hoping the year will go quickly : )
posted Sep 06