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A_Letter_Without_Sound
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Interests: Well... not really interests. Just a small bio of myself.
Hi everyone. I'm someone who likes to write in their spare time. What you see before you are the fnished/unfinished products of my bordem/creativity/anger/etc. I hope you get some sort of reaction from it, whether it be hate, joy, entertainment, or whatever emotion you can conjure.
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  Auricom46
Yahoo:  BrokenHorizon01
Member Since:
9/28/2004
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| Wow, I've been away for a while, eh? Well, here's something new. A song in the style of Taking Back Sunday. Enjoy.
"Scripted"
Just breathe
And let it fall upon my skin
So I can feel
This misery begin
Now I know you know
That this is tearing me apart
Now I know that you know
That this is teraing me apart
Chrous:
x2
You knew it all along!
(Line by line, scene by scene)
The ending to this song...
(Line by line, scene by scene)
Hold hands
So we can go on with this jest
Of tragedy
The bullet's still lodged in my chest
And your rubber covered lips
Will keep this precious litte script
I'm sure I'll take some tips
When it's time to come to grips
(Chorus)
What's my line again (I said I loved you)
What's my line again (I said I need you)
What's my line again (I said I miss you)
What's my line again (I said I'll kill you)
(Chorus)
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| "Quench."
His hands are the branding iron filled with the heat of an unquenched thirst, marking his victim with his signs of both strength and weakness. This isn’t the first time he’s selected one from the herd, and won’t be his last. They say that the ocean is full of fishes. He thinks he’s the shark. And he won’t stop hunting. In his mind, he’s immortal. His victims are his food, his replenishment, his blood. Her cries fill his mind with perverted metaphors that only seem to illustrate the large collage of girl after girl that has come across this game of torture. His hands let go. Her heart is the orchestra that swells with the climax of his expedition. This is his moment. Clothing is but a thin barrier between his desires of the flesh. It’s been there for so long.
So long! But it hurt so bad back then, didn’t it? When the beast was atop you like the wolf upon a rabbit. And you screamed. It still echoes, doesn’t it?
His hands plunge to her, tearing away her over garment and her dignity.
In your head. The never-ending cycle that goes inside that mind of yours. You were weak. You were never strong.
He pulls her hair with unannounced strength, throwing her down upon a bed marked with the red stains of sins. He smiles slightly, knowing that this moment would come, where her virginity would be come his. She would remember this, remember him, remember…
The time you laid in your bed, afraid that the shadows were spawn of your torture? That you were no one?
But this is who he is.
This is who you are.
This is it. | | |
| "Floor."
As the snow falls, frozen tears of angels that when magnified show the beauty of pattern, the music on my stereo plays the same sad song over and over. I can't get you out of my head, as you've taken some permanent residence in the sapce in my mind reserved for those feel-good times they so often promote on TV. You know, where we're all sitting back in the drive-thru and eating popcorn, enjoying each other's very touch. The movie is silent, giving us enough light to see within each others eyes, to reflect the absolute beauty of memory.
Yet, as cold as the wind that howls like a lost beast hungry for sorrow, we find ourselves looking down at the floor, wondering if maybe etched on the cold stone lies the answers that we so desperatly seek. Maybe it's there. If we looks hard enough. | | |
| "Demand."
I want to talk to God. Give him a piece of my mind. I thought we were supposed to live in harmony. I thought we were created in your image. Does this mean that you rape, kill, steal, and sin too? I mean, this is what I understand from that big old book that's in about every hotel I ever stay in. You created the world in 6 days, right? Well, I think you can fix all of our problems in about 2 hours. Where are you when we need you? Millions of people call to you every night, so I bet your answering machine is a little too overloaded. Children are starving. Crying. Dying because they don't have enough to eat. Most people blame us. I blame you. I blame everything on you. You're supposed to watch over us. You're supposed to be that warm blanket that keeps us safe when we sleep at night. Yet there are those living out of cardboard boxes and eating worms. Was this meant to be our destiny? That we simply just crumble as you sit back and do nothing? Aren't you suppoed to be coming and dropping a whole new shiny Jerusalem? Then dance and sing in your name forever and ever? I don't know about you, but that sounds quite like a tolitarian system. Why you? Why can't we love something else? We're capable of hate, because you made us that way. Yet you send us to some firey place because we don't agree with you. Isn't that wrong? I think so. I think you're wrong. So wrong. | | |
| "Analysis."
We face daily what seems to be the battle between reason and desire, between love and hate, between a line and what seems to be the resemblance of an edge that has poetically provided us with some sort of melodramatic alternative. We play Halloween daily, given that someone, anyone will give us something for our Oscar level performance. We can't wash away the make-up. The rubber suits have melted onto our skins, and the best we can do is pretend that everything is okay. We stalk the nights while the stars laugh at all the puppets pretending to be real. This is not our fault you say. The generation before the generation corrupted us to the core, and the apple tree sprouts nothing more than black shaded fruits that Eve refuses to take anymore. Does that give us some excuse to take back everything we've done, simply because our hands are too numb to feel the blade we've slashed the throat of our future with? It's not hard to say that none of this was our fault. We were blind from the start. From the very start. | | |
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