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Interview with Patrick Stump [Jan. 13th, 2007|08:01 pm]

So much cooler and talented than Pete Wentz.

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My heart is the worst kind of weapon [Oct. 24th, 2006|01:18 am]
I spent most of last night dragging this lake
for the corpses of all my past mistakes.
Sell me out- the jokes on you.
I am the salt- and you are the wound.

Empty another bottle
and let me tear you to pieces.
This is me wishing you
Into the worst situations
I'm the kind of kid
That can't let anything go
But you wouldn't know a good thing
If it came up and slit your throat

Your remorse hasn't fallen on deaf ears
Rather ones that just don't care
cause I know
That you're in between arms somewhere
Next to heartbeats
Where you shouldn't dare sleep
Now I'll teach you a lesson
For keeping secrets from me

And did you hear the news?
I could dissect you
And gut you on the spot
Not as eloquent as I may have imagined
But it will get the job done(and you're done)
Every line is plotted and designed
To leave you standing
On your bedroom window's ledge
And everyone else that it hits
That it gets to
Is nothing more than collateral damage
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ANother two candles and Molly wouldnt be so innocent. [Oct. 20th, 2006|11:26 pm]
You are split-second slide shows. Like subliminal marketing from the 1960's, the thought of you interferes and fades.

Endless sharades. Living for the minute. I'll never truly be 'over it'. This sorrow is becoming cliche. I'm tired of these fingertip evaluations, but like a drug I keep coming back.

Imagery has a chokehold. Like a projector in the back of my mind; you're oscar-worthy.

This is useless. phone text tag. Responding to your 'I miss yous' with 'You shoulds'. It's the only way I know how. Drink down another heart break. Ignore everything I ever said. Just erase these lips; you've rendered this tongue usless.

Make me believe. Cast faux shadows while you're up and down. I've been staring at this wall for too long. Broken windows leading to gold mines keep me distracted. I can truly say you've buried the best of me. Derailed my trust and fallen asleep on the track.

I hate you for this.
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(no subject) [Oct. 15th, 2006|11:32 pm]

I need no music.
I need no books.
I need no art.

All the inspiration in the world lies in my perception of the things around me. The fuck if my arrogance is going to let anyone else tell me how I feel about life.

the fall makes me nervous about things.
call it transition scare.
it makes me feel funny and strange. it makes me feel butterflies in every part of my body.
good and bad.
roll with the days like they're august nights.

im sitting here at my computer.
see you? see me? are we ever gonna find a map and get back to sqare one?

i've got 20 seconds of music on repeat.
Sometimes all i want is for people to hear the music and see the imagery inside my head.
think the same neverending thoughts.
hum the same tunes with the same intent.

"we are not the football team 1:53-2:38"

remember me? remember this? over and over we go.

i just wish you missed me this much more than i miss you.
just so i could have the upper hand.
you have no idea how fucked up my view of things are.
how fucked they've become.
were you've become replaced by ideals and ego points.

turn left for salvation.
turn right for damnation.
this is how i drive myself off the off-ramp of isolation.

i hate you rhyme scheme. all you ever do is make me feel cheap and cliched. be it intentional or not. fuck you.

eyes up. keep them on me. right here. right now. here.

"girl slow down"

i'm afraid of the weather and what its going to do to me.

with the downsides we got everything beautiful.
i can look forward to reality breaks and chapters upon chapters of material.

this is(n't) exactly what i need.

obsession. infatuation. corruption.
with every hit comes a million dead brain cells and a thousand changes in personality.
i'm burning out, but the hell if i ain't burning bright.

"starlight, starbright, the first burning star i see tonight..."

wish on me right before i hit the ground.

i work in spurts without any intent.
seasons seasons, we're back in business.
its funny how when all the leaves start to die my words are coming back to life.

my gift, my burden.

all the great ones were tortured in one way or another.
this is everything it needs to be to get a beautiful end product.

heres to the long nights ahead.
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You've got ways out, and you've got ways in. [Sep. 28th, 2006|03:58 pm]
melodies and paintings.
writing like it would save my life.
getting what you wanted me to get with what you got.
realizing that it will all be okay.
effort. i've become something of potential effort.
"we're sorting trash like we'd find something new."

my skin itches.
train rides home. face me due west.

seeing the sunset with soundtracks that define fall.
everything changes with the weather.
"but its just that i don't really feel like going home."
sideways and full of it all.
gorgeous nights.
breathe out with all the leaves in the air.
me and baraba talking shit.
love us or leave us.
I've found company in the weirdest ways.

waving at conductors and squiting in the face of it all.
"its probably our last summer night"
tea and chips on worn out benches.
i'm trying, oh god am i trying.

time is a strange thing.
it can rip worlds apart, and when you revist them, everything just looks so strange and deformed.
Its a street you drove down for more than ten years, and seeing it again and the buildings torn down and buildings built up.
we're recyclable.
we're changeable.
nothing stops or notices us until its far past its construction date.

we're not so much ghost towns as we are developed land and strip malls.

we're sitting ducks.
gimme a dollar and a dime, and baby we're yesterdays news.

baby, when we're on, we're fucking on. But god help us in the bad times.

its cyclical.
setting my watches to each and every action.
I'm the nurse in the clinic noting how the patient keeps ripping up their sheets.
you are nothing but repetitive.
and i'm nothing but heartless.
note your behavior, and tell doctor how you've got no hope for recovery in my eyes.

waking up.
wake me up.
we're always sleepwalking in memories.
stepping around eggshells.
but didn't you know?
you placed them all there yourself.
and i got the reverse effects. that sick drop in my stomach. where your realize that maybe things just might not turn out alright.

and like a good confidante, i've got it all down and wrapped in bows.
its so much easier to forget than to move on.

wake up.
wake up time and time again.

if this isn't over, then we're better off being numb.
kill the receptors with time and distance.
iv drips and sedatives.
Selling the world our lies cornerside for a few cheap bucks.

tell me this isn't a business, and maybe then we'll meet at a coersive point.

i go home to empty houses.
and i'm at such a reluctant age that silence isn't an enemy.
we're ups and we're downs.
we've become few and far between.
we've transfered wings, and picked up new habits and new stays.
old and grey.

this is all grown old and grey.
and i've realized i've woken up.
and i've realized you were no longer there.
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(no subject) [Sep. 24th, 2006|03:43 pm]
Private lovers. But you can leave a comment.
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