fear, frighten.everyday i feel these things.lost, betrayed.i know very well i am.sad, alone.my never ending emptiness inside.hatred, anger.the only two things that keeps me going.
one day i'll be gone and you'll wonder what went wrong,one day i'll feel free again and you'll be stuck wandering,through the streets asking for me,searching for me,crying out for me,and i'll be gone,i won't leave a trace behind,so you'll never find me,one day you'll miss me,and wish that you'd kissed me,and loved me,and kept me,one day i'll be on top of the world while you're stuck down under,still asking,"if you see this girl could you give her my number?"
this page makes me happy,this one makes me sad,on this one i've fallen in love,and this one i've fallen out,this one takes me on an adventure,and this one I make new friends,this one they all die,and i'm alone,i come back home crying,because of my lost friends,until i close the book,take a deep breath,and open a new one,starting the cycle again.
there she goes,the girl they all hate,she's just to oblivious to hear what they say,she calls them her friends,even when they say they are not,she just can't see that they hated her from the start,they tried to tell her,even too her face,but she brushed them all off with grace,or rather oblivion,she never saw she ment nothing to them,but there she went the girl in oblivion,and i use 'went' very loosely and say,she simply did find out one day,her heart was broken into thousands of pieces,but non of them could careless,
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.