Be more forward, you tell me.

And there’s that ever present nudge in your words that is meant to remind me, I may one day regret it if I don’t.

And I know what you mean, and I hear what you’re saying.

But what I can’t tell you is, in the being more forward, in the moving forward, there exist that sliver of fear, that if I don’t like it, I can’t go back.

And back.

Back there.

Back where the trail of the footsteps that I, myself, painstakingly pressed one by one into the sands of time, that lead back to yesterday, last year and beyond, is where the known lies.

And there is rarely ever fear in the known.
Because, in that known, at least, there is you.

Be more forward, you tell me.

And there’s that ever present warning in your words that is meant to remind me, I may one day regret it if I don’t.

And what I can’t tell you is, I’m a little bit scared that I may regret it if I do.

And what I can’t tell you is, even as I hesitantly take that very first step forward, stumbling over rising tides of my own fear over the threshold that floats like smoke between the planes of time, I’m hoping against hope, that if I fast forward to tomorrow, I’ll find that you’ll have met me on the other side.

Meet me halfway, right at the borderline
Let’s walk the bridge, to the other side
Just you and I.
I will fly, I’ll fly the skies, for you and I.
I will try, until I die…

For you… for whom my blood scalds with an unquenchable heat every single moment, of every single day, and sends my mind into dizzying heights of wonder of what each day may bring.

===

The concrete is cold, hard, rough – unyielding under my bare knees. My jacket is strewn nearby in the dirt, thrown off in haste, and the cool spring air breathes like a whisper wrought with an irresistible danger weaving though the soft errant hairs curling in the dampness of the nape of my neck. And even through the background noise of construction chaos and raucous laughter of men on their lunch break, I can hear the breath hiss through your teeth as I wrap my lips around the hardening tip of your cock, and slide my mouth all the way down your shaft.

There’s a rare moment of quiet, of stillness, before the thundering of my blood cascading like a scarlet waterfall up and down my veins returns to echo inside my own head, and I pull back, looking up at you with eyes wide, as if surprised at the boldness my own actions; then, overcome with my consuming need for you, I drag my fist down the length of your hardness, feeling my palm grip the soft skin, and moving it over the hard core of your manhood, following with my mouth and sucking hard as my lips slide over you inch by inch until your cock head strangles the air in my throat.

I’m sorry. I just couldn’t wait. Not another minute.

This morning dragged long and slow, every single moment besieged with the thought of your hard, thick cock trailing a line of clear pre-come along my tongue.

So I’m here, I came; not bothering to wave to you as you stood, aloft, a dark figure silhouetted against the sunlight. I felt your eyes on me, as I walked to wait for you in the shadows in the nearby alley, knowing you’d know what I’d want.

And you’re here, you came; dusting the dirt off your palms to cling like ghostly, dusty hand prints on the back of your jeans as you turned the corner to find me, kneeling, waiting, waiting for you.

The skin scrapes from my knees, jagged stones on the asphalt surface digging raw, blood dotted trenches as I spread my legs further apart, adjusting my position to better take you deeper. Your belt buckle clangs with a dull metallic rhythm as it swings against my cheek to the beat of your thrusts, my fingers grasping at the base of your cock, holding it still, erect, as my lips drag up and down your pulsing iron hardness in an agonizing pace, each movement designed to make you even harder, longer, thicker… each movement designed to make you want more.

Someone calls your name from afar.

I feel you exhale, emptying your lungs of a breath held for too long. The adrenalin coursing through your veins dulls the pain of the back of your head dropping back too hard, banging against the fading graffiti paint. A groan catches in the hollow of your throat each time the rim of your cock catches in the tight ring of my lips, and your hands coming up to tangle in my hair, your hips moving to force yourself faster in and out of the fleshy, velvet tunnel of my mouth.

The pent up hours of waiting for this has drained me of all grace and made my ministrations erratic, frantic. The familiar musky taste of your cock mixed with the warm, minty scent of my own breath washing back over my face as you fuck my mouth has transformed me into pure whore, and I reach between my legs, shoving two fingers into my sopping cunt.

I want you, I want to feel your cock turn my lips to pulp as you piston in and out of my mouth, I want to feel you anchor yourself by taking handfuls of my hair, tearing it from my scalp, shivering as my tongue flicks against the seam of your cock, I want to feel your entire body clench and tremor in that exquisite moment before orgasm, and more than anything, I want to feel you erupt, in a cascade of hot thick come all over my face.

The image makes me moan even as the head of your cock rams like a jackhammer against the back of my throat, making me gag. I look up at you with eyes blurring with tears and you move your hand to tighten around my throat, making me choke even as you pound into me, deeper, faster, with more brutality than I can imagine; as if to punish me for interrupting your day, making every moment of yours I’ve stolen count.

Someone calls your name again, closer now.

I freeze in place, a deer in the headlights, that split second before all vestige of innocence is lost, and I wonder if you know, I want to be found here, right here, legs spread wide like a fuck deprived slut, bent over ramming my own cunt with fingers soaked with my juices, and your cock glistening with my saliva as it plunges down my cock hungry throat.

I wonder if you know, that I want to be found here, moaning and whimpering, begging and pleading like a common street whore to be fucked, exposed to everyone, to anyone. To you. And that the thought that you’ll be right here watching every second of whatever may happen next, burning into your psyche every moment of my submission to my inner slut, every second of my admission of my utter whore with which to later pleasure me, to torture me is what brought me here in the first place.

The footsteps crunch on the asphalt, unknowing of what lays now only seconds away, and the voice calls out for you one more time.

As my fingers drive deeper into the clenching vice of my cunt, and I feel your balls stiffen as your cock strains against its own imminent eruption, I can’t help but wonder if you know that I want you to answer the call.

:: And I can’t help but wonder… if you want to answer it, too.

Er, yeah. I edited because, you know, it sucked *laughs* Unlike me, for once. *grins* Pervs. Sheesh.

And for those who know me and find my confessions here a little too in the realm of “I didn’t need to know that”, I hereby fulfill your request by giving you a heads up that this be one of those posts. Don’t say I never do anything for you.

=======

I look up and all I can see is his hands; white knuckled as they grapple like flesh nooses around the polished wrought iron bed rail that arcs like a machete, blunt from use, over my head. It anchors him, earths him, as he releases a grunt from the exertion of pulling back his hips, struggling as if the action defies a magnetic force that forbids the separation of our polar centres. He pauses in movement for a moment, to relish the anticipation rather than for positioning, and then, slams his body forward, driving his hard cock into my barely wet cunt.

Breath billows from me in expulsions of air, as if a gasp in rewind, and my own hands come into view as I press them against him; appearing small and delicate amidst the smattering of dark curls that decorate the expanse of his dark, muscle moulded chest. It’s a senseless action – pushing him away even as my nails dig into him, silently, clawingly, imploring him to stay.The discomfort of his thickness stretching me, comforts me, the reminder of pain in sex a familiar friend.

He whispers something. I can barely hear him over my own breaths. “Take it,” I think his words are. And the revelation comes; he knew I wasn’t ready.

I wriggle under his weight, dragging my legs up to bend awkwardly at the knee, flattening my outer thighs against the tousled sheets to making room in the narrow tunnel of my sex for his intruding hardness. It is in vain. I can feel him growing inside me even as I struggle for respite from the ache of my cunt stretching beyond her limits to accommodate him.

He releases his grip on the rail with one hand, dragging his nails along my left thigh with a touch devoid of tenderness; I make a note to check for the markings of that four fingered trail later just as he pushes my left knee over to meet its right counterpart, flipping me onto my side. My legs, clasped together like clammy hands in prayer, trap his pistoning cockshaft between my fleshy thighs, his balls slapping against the plump loaves of my labia, like a pair of vulgar rosary beads, as if voicing their need to be caressed between kneading fingertips.

Towering over me, his chest presses against my shoulder, strong, warm, heaving, damp, to match the glistening trail of his tongue as he traces the red inked scratch marks on my back. It’s a ritual, a fixation, a part of me he can’t understand, that mocks him for being unable to possess it. As if angered by this reminder, he moves his mouth to mine, shoving his tongue between my lips with the clumsiness afforded by blind want, and I feel him slip from my cunt. For a moment, we’re like teenagers in lust, a frantic, frenzied dancing of wet tongues and warm, sweet breath and the exchange of desire through saliva – but only for a moment.

Amidst the breathless kisses, he takes my hands and, together with his, clasps them around the overhead bedrail as he rams the entire length of his cock deep into the tightened walls of my cunt.

A scream dies a strangled death in the back of my throat as he traps it with his teeth, grazing their jagged porcelain edges against my throat. He knows what I want, before I want it. Knows anger only makes me want it more. His thrusts are relentless; in and out, in and out, he fucks me with a rhythm that matches that of his mouth against my pulse, as I lay helpless to the savage pounding of him in and out of my dripping cunt.

Is there any grace, any tenderness, any art to our sudden afternoon tryst? I don’t know.

All I know is the leeching of my strength, as I feel the inevitable heat of climax seep through my veins like cyanide ice, crippling, in its ability to overcome the senses. My movement, the antithesis to his movements, pushing against him as he propels himself forward, away when he pulls back, converting each collision into a tableau of pure physics, maximising each and every impact.

I want him deeper, harder, faster – more and more.

Sensing my need, he tears my hands from the rails and lifts himself away from my body, moulding me, a fuck puppet in his hands, until I’m bent on my knees and elbows in front of him, pivoting on his cock as he keeps his hips attached to me, taking handfuls of my ass as he returns to his frantic fucking.

I grasp for fistfuls of the duvet as I lift my hips, pressing my face into the pillow, moaning with him in unison as the friction of his shaft, dragging along the valley leading to my ass launches me one more leap towards orgasm. His hands knead at my bruising flesh, harder and harder, pulling my ass open and closed; the cold breaths of air washing over me, teasing me, taunting me. I ram my fingers into my mouth, then reach behind me to slide my drenched index finger into the star shaped opening of my ass.

I explode in a torrent of curses and whole body tremors, my cunt clenching like a fist of quivering velvet muscle around his cock, even as it floods him with my come. My nails catching on the edge of the mattress as my ribcage burns and buckles for air, my finger released from the clutching depths of my ass only when I’m drained of strength.

Gripping my hips to slam against back him and ignoring the collapsed frame of my torso as I beg for breath, he fucks me faster and faster, the ferocity of his thrusts blazing an ice hot trail in my cunt; faster and faster, until there isn’t a sliver of time between each plunge of his straining cock into me. Then, ramming the tip of his thumb into the tight passage of my anus, he comes with a final thrust, burying himself into my womb, groaning with each propulsion of his come from the tip of his aching cock, his other hand finding a grip on the back of my neck as his muscles jerk with his receding climax.

I swallow, my throat constricting under his hand, and he collapses, falling to the side, pulling me into him.

I turn in his arms to face him and lay a hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat life against the heel of my palm. He smiles and runs a finger along my flushed cheek, pulling an errant hair from my face.

“You’re pretty after you come,” he says, somewhat out of character and with, perhaps, just perhaps, a tinge of an apology.

“I’m pretty before, too,” I answer, grinning at him, hardly concerned with modesty considering what had just occurred.

He laughs and pulls the duvet over my bare back as he sits up, inspecting the clothes strewn on the floor with slight amusement. “Are you going to tell HIM about this?”

I laugh, knowing now I have to.

“Is that a yes?” He prods, cocking an eyebrow, knowing full well my ability to avoid a direct question.

I can’t help but laugh again at his none too subtle need to know and hang off the side of the bed to reach for his clothes, kicking my legs at him as he runs his hand over my bare calf.

“It is! It’s a yes! Well, tell him how sexy and manly I am!” He winks at me as he catches the clothes I throw in his face, and slides his arms into the long crumpled sleeves of his favourite blue pinstripe shirt.

“I can’t, I don’t lie to him! That’s tacky!”

“And telling him about us fucking, isn’t?” He asks, struggling once more to comprehend those parts of me that don’t make sense to him.

“Telling him about us fucking isn’t what?” I ask, knowing full well what he means, as I sit up, bunching up the sheets against my chest and tucking them under my chin.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, tugging the blanket down to my lap to expose my breasts and leans over to press a kiss to my shoulder. Then, flicking his thumb over my right nipple, he pulls away as I reach out to slap his hand, “I said, telling him about our fucking isn’t tacky?”

I slide out from under the duvet and stretch out, naked, behind him, “Of course it is!”

He tucks his feet into his shoes before turning around to slap his hand over my ass, grinning as I squeal and run my fingers over the reddening skin. He watches me and ponders for a moment before asking me one last question,“Then why do it?”

I smile and shrug, and give him the answer even I’ve only now begun to understand, “Because I tell him everything.”

I’m here.

I’m just quiet.

For now.

But I’ll be hasta la vida loca-ing…(as in, yes, I’ll be mixing my Spanish movie/music quotes), back here again very soon, I Imagine.

But, along with your steak knives, as a limited time offer, you can also find me over here. Which is the reason why I think I will be back here more often. Being there, seems to give me the space to hash out what I want to say here. Also, the stuff I’m saying over there….has been deemed necessary in order for me to get a particular piece of parchment.

Why not say it here? Because lately there seems to be more chaff than wheat. So i’m thinking of there as just a stop along the factory line that runs between my head, and what will eventually be consumable.

Also, it goes without saying (which won’t stop me…) –

desiderium exists for me for a very, very specific and special reason, and I’d prefer not to tamper with that.

Even if I’ve been quiet.

For now.

Good version of a great song.

Listen to it.

Don’t make me hurt you.

The dedication remains the same, always. 

Come up to meet you,
Tell you I’m sorry,
You don’t know how lovely you are.

I had to find you,
Tell you I need you,
Tell you I set you apart.

Tell me your secrets,
And ask me your questions,
Oh let’s go back to the start.

Runnin’ in circles,
Comin’ in tails,
Heads on a science apart.

Nobody said it was easy,
It’s such a shame for us to part.
Nobody said it was easy,
No one ever said it would be this hard.
Oh take me back to the start.

I was just guessin’,
At numbers and figures,
Pullin’ the puzzles apart.

Questions of science,
Science and progress,
Do not speak as loud as my heart.

Tell me you love me,
Come back and haunt me,
Oh, what a rush to the start.

Runnin’ in circles,
Chasin’ tails,
Comin’ back as we are.

Nobody said it was easy,
Oh it’s such a shame for us to part.
Nobody said it was easy,
No one ever said it would be so hard.
I’m goin’ back to the start.

Oh ooh ooh ooh ooh ohh,
Ah ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh,

What do we do with the time?

Logging into my little collection of thoughts here, after a month whirlwind of work, catch up work time and more catch up work time, a strange little box greeted me from the right hand corner of my wordpress dashboard.

“Quick Press” it claimed its name to be.

Quick posting, for those (word)pressed for time, I assume.

Who isn’t?

However, keeping in mind I’m antsy with trepidation, at most, when there is unexpected change around me, I’m still reluctantly dipping my cyber pen toe into this little box here, dizzy with the prospect of the shovelfuls of time I’m saving in doing so, in lieu of moving my finger an inch across the mousepad, to click on the “new post” tab, that has previously served me so well.

Time, time! Oh glorious time!

Even now as I type these words that may never make it to digitally published print, I’m greedy at the thought of the minutes and hours ahead that I’ve saved and just what I may do with them.

Pay my bills, maybe… or finish that report that seems to keep finding itself at the end of the pile, even though it’s of utmost importance. And when that’s done, it’s time the carpet became reacquainted with the vacuum cleaner, and some of my clothes with the washer.

Hmm.

Makes me want to say… Fuck You WordPress!! Keep your precious time!!

But you know, in a more graceful, ladylike manner.

“Please do excuse me while I politely ram a 2B pencil up your behind, Mr WordPress as a symbol of my utmost appreciation of your gift of time”… or something similar.

I’m nothing if not grateful.

But really, consider the amount of time you’ve spent acclimatizing to things designed to save you time… no really, how much time have you wasted rifling around in your Bookmarks for that one special video clip, when all you had to do was go that extra step to google and search “+midget donkey wd40 youporn”?? … erm, you know, hypothetically speaking, I wasn’t snooping around on your PC *smiles sweetly*

Not to mention automated this, shortcutted that, monotone recorded voices reading back 100 digit receipt numbers … which, other than further hermitifying the truly antisocial among us, do bad things to my blood pressure each time I have to practice my reading out of my Visa number in my non accent.

And for what?

I can’t think of anything I’ve done in the last day, month, year, that was a direct result of the extra time I had on my hands. I know I did something…I must’ve, I just wish I knew what it was, I wish it was something that made me proud, something that made me look upon my life with achievement. I wish it was highlighted with a great big neon sign, a flashing arrow pointing, “You did this. You rock. Just for that, I’m rewarded you with more time!”

So, maybe it’s time to live a little less… for a purpose, but a little more…purposefully.

There’s a difference.

At 3:37am Sunday morning, and 11 tequila shots down, I couldn’t tell you what that is, but I know what it is.

I think …

It’s trying a little more, while being a little less trying (this may apply to a chosen few, to whom I’m a little more difficult, than others).
It’s trying to forget a little more of what has gone by… while being a little less forgetful of the things that will smooth out the path for the future.
It’s a little less time being so insanely obsessed with trying to find out who “me” is …and a little more time just BEING me.
It’s a little less being worried about having to be okay all the time, and a little more time realizing, everything will be okay.
It’s being a little more in the moment… and a little less…trying to make moments.

*smiles*

It’s a little less time spent making excuses for not writing, and a little more writing.

Even midnight drunken ramblings.

You may cheer.

Unless it’s Sunday mid morning my time, at which time I will be firmly entrenched in spending a little time becoming re-acquainted with my bathroom tile, and prayer.

*grins*

I guess I just want to know, I’ve done something with my time.

I used to be in charge of juicing the batches of blood oranges that grew outside my bedroom window, because I’d refuse to throw out the orange halves until I’d wrung out every last drop, my fingertips drenched in the blood red juice, as the peel lay tattered and torn in my hands.

*pours you a glass of orange juice and adds a drop of cointreau, and lift my glass*

Here’s to being tattered and torn, and wringing out every last drop.

Now…if only I could find the submit button thingo.

Dear WordPress,
Try spending the time you save on that time-saving thing,  making your interface a little more drunk friendly.

Xo,
Your friendly drunk.

There are days when I haven’t the words to describe what it is I feel.

When my tongue taps, frustrated, against the back of my front teeth, and my fingernails scratch at the faded letters on the keypad in hope of freeing the inspiration that lies dormant beyond the plastic veneer, and hope that the words will magically come.

The words to articulate to the world, and to you, the flurry of feeling that dances between the rise and fall of my ribcage with each breath when you are near.

Today is not one of those days.

Today, the words are stifling, are suffocating me. I can’t see the sky for the lines of black ink that fill my view as I allow my mind a rare decadent moment to immerse itself in thoughts of you.

Words of meaning, and those of none.
Words that have been shared and those yet to be uttered.

Relentlessly, they pile upon pile in the cluttered, hallway corners of my thoughts. And, like a relic hunter, hungry for the holy grail, I rifle and rummage through the dusty treasure chests and under moth eaten blankets for the right ones.

And even as I wrap my lips around the words, the sounds, their jagged edges spread a metallic bitterness over my tongue, and I know it is because none will fit the jumbled jigsaw of broken, brilliant colours, that appears when I’m with you.

And in those moments, I realise why I can’t find the words to describe what it is I feel.

:: Because there simply are none.

~*~

Trying to find the magic
Trying to write a classic
Waste-bin full of paper
Clever rhymes, see you later

Now you’ve gone & raised the bar right up
Nothing I write is ever good enough

These words are my own
From my heart flow

There’s never really been any question about it.

The only variant, ever, being how much, how much more, how many, and sometimes, in my pickier moments, maybe, whose.

But never “why”, or “if”, or the thought of “not today”.

No, there’s never, ever been any question, never any question at all, that I love cock.

For the sake of this meander, I’d go so far to say, I’m a greedy, cum guzzling, cock worshipper.

Why am I?

Well, I’m so glad you asked.

The simple fact is, there’s nothing I don’t like about cock.

I like big ones, bigger ones, ones that are so big they make me see a swirling array of blinding stars as they painfully split apart my unprepared cunt, statistically declared average sized ones, smaller ones and yes, even the truly ridiculous.

I love them for their absolute lack of conformity to the natural demand for a pleasing aesthetic, that their design is all bout physical function, and not creative, attractive form.

I love them for being all “man” and no “woman”, lacking in anything that is conventionally beautiful or dainty; I love that the stark vulgarity of an unadorned fully erect cock makes me instantly wet at the mere thought, at the mere sight.

And that in the presence of a cock, hard, engorged, crudely jutting from the body, the head shiny with the effort of restraining sackfuls of semen, the tip, winking at me with just the promise of the glint of liquid, I am weak at the knees with only one thought in my mind, that I want to wrap my mouth around it, engulf it, devour it, suck it into pure unadulterated sexual oblivion.

Why?

Because every bit as much as I love cock, I love falling on my knees in front of it in a graceless display of utter cumsluttery.

I love the closeness of it, the proximity of my mouth, my lips, my tongue, every organ that is dedicated to taste rubbing up against the soft, delicate skin, even as it’s stretched along the hardening, resilient core, pulsing and throbbing underneath my stroking fist. I love the smell, of both freshly washed balls and the musky scent of cock trapped in denim and cloth. I love the intoxicating cocktail of my hot breath infused with the salty tang of pre-cum washing back over my flushed cheeks, as I leave all remnant of my dignity behind, guzzling and gobbling at the shrine of a long, hard, thick, delicious cock.

I love the complete commitment to the moment as I dedicate each breath, each lingering lick, each sloppy suck, each squeeze of my lips around the rim of his cockhead, to maximising the sensation of my whorish mouth slowly teasing towards orgasm.

I love that with practiced precision, I can predict that with nothing but a slight press of my flattened tongue along the seam of his cock his ass will clench as he moves his hands to the back of my head and beg for more, and with a firm grip of my fist, fingers laced under his balls as my mouth begins its final assault, tight, wet, urgent long strokes deep into my throat and out, I can reduce a man to a quivering mass of guttural groans, turn him preverbal, immersed in the exquisite inelegance of climax, as I revel in the hot, heady spurt of his come over my face, filling my sore, bruised mouth as reward.

You ask why I like to worship cock?

That’s why.

Because nothing else can lure the most primal, basal, essence of me.

:: The cumslut.

Sometimes I wish I knew nothing about him.

Not his name, his age, his occupation.

Not his way with words nor his love of song.

Not the way he cradles my quivering cheek in the palm of his hand when I’m weak, nor the way he laughs at me when he’s teaching me strength.

Not the way he stirs a dormant crippling pain with a single word, nor the way he tempers his cruelty with breathtaking tenderness.

Sometimes I wish I knew nothing about him at all.

Because in moment such as these, each little detail, little facet, little secret piece of the jigsaw that completes my image of him, pierces the cloak of anonymity in which I find shelter as I succumb to the desire of the moment.

Because in moments such as these…

I want to fuck him with a soul sucking, leeching darkness, that draws wracking sobs of fear and despair from even those shrouded in the cruelest evil.

In the murky depths of my most sinister thoughts, I want to lure him with the anguished promise of my greed for pain, my need for hurt, my skin drenched in the dripping scent of sex in sin and enter into a fatal bargain of lust for life.

I want to anger him. I want to despise him. I want to enrage him.
I want to adore and abhor him.

I want to entreat the demon in him to unleash its rage on me in a rainbow of stinging lashes to shatter my rebellion, furious at the defiance of my will, even as his own fading humanity despises me for my human weaknesses.

I want my tears to incense him.
And my screams to arouse.

My whimpers to awaken his thirst for my blood.
And my sobs to stir his hunger for devastation.

And in that pristine moment of the clashing of my wants against his needs I want to scour my nails down the tearing skin of his face, until he turns, howling and wounded, man no more, and beast, no less…

And as he drags his cunt drenched cock from the clenching, clawing portal of my sex to plunge the engorged, enraged head into the gaping fuck hole of my mouth, may the symphony of my choked breaths strummed by his throttling fingers around my neck ascend to a perfectly pitched prayer.

A prayer to nobody, and for nothing.

Because in moments such as these, there exists nothing but my need to be fucked by him.
Even though in moment such as these… I know nothing about him.

He is not he.
I am not me.

As our screams and bodies thrash in a profane rejection of all that is not connected to the end goal of our combustion of human flesh for pleasure, we writhe, celebrating the primordial, the primal; there no longer exists rhyme nor reason, lust nor love, life nor death…

And as we erupt together with a volcanic, ferocious, iniquitous fury, may he fall against me, his breath my own, his skin indistinguishable from mine as in the midst of the melding of everything and nothing, we are made one, lying along the trail of wreckage left behind by our fucking.

All is but dust; for when we are together, he destroys me.

For with nothing but a touch of his fingertips, all that is left of my body and soul, are the seared remains of a…

~ Pure massacre.

~*~

Take a moment to realise, you don’t always have to feel alone,
don’t always have to feel that you’re alone in how you feel.

xo

Showers pounding out a new beat
I trade my old shoes for new feet
I grab a new seat
I don’t like the one I got
The fabric’s wearing through
And it’s wearing me out
You’re wearing me down

Watching old baseball games
And low budget telethons
Ain’t like watching you yourself
When you yourself is on
Got time to wander to waste and to whine
But when it comes to you,
It seems like I just can’t find the time

So watch your head and then watch the ground
It’s a silly time to learn to swim when you start to drown
It’s a silly time to learn to swim on the way down

If I gave you my number
Would it still be the same
If I saved you from drowning?
Promise me you’ll never go away
Promise me you’ll always stay

Closed down the last local zoo
I’m gonna win the endless war
Over who kills the last koala bear
And who in death will love him more and I
He grabs me by the hand
Drags me to the shore and says
Maybe you don’t love me
But you’ll grow to love me even more

And I well I’m not surprised

If I gave you my number
Would it still be the same
If I saved you from drowning?
Promise me you’ll never go away
Promise me you’ll always stay

Showers pounding out a new beat
I trade my old shoes for new feet
I grab a new seat
I don’t like the one I got
The fabric’s wearing through
And it’s wearing me out
You’re wearing me down

So watch your head and then watch the ground
It’s a silly time to learn to swim when you start to drown
It’s a silly time to learn to swim on the way down