...she said so/
She said she is a mess.
She chopped her nail polish while twisting her hair.
She can drive you crazy and drive herself to the good old No-where.
Sometimes she feels like there is No-air.
She lives in a strange land.
She just doesn't know where is this land yet.
She makes you wanna suicide and end your pity life.
There is no right or wrong.No black nor white.
Sometimes she knows what she wants.
Sometimes she pretends she does.
She is no good liar.
She can't lie her poor old self.
All she knows that now she is in c-r-i-s-i-s which can kill your joyful days.
Sarcasm is her poetry.
Fiction is her world.
Pessimism is her lover.
Drama is her brother.
After sorting out the family,it's time for rock'n'roll.
You understand,darling,she is just not your type of girl.
21 Jun 2011
6 Jun 2011
All you can think of...
...are blue butterflies.
(And it's true.)
One day you woke up and you don't realise it,because you already know it.You know that all you can and you will think of ...are blue butterflies.You probably can change it,but you don't do the effort...And why would you? You know how it would be.How it was supposed to be.The thing you don't know is really how it is going to be.You have images in your head of...blue butterflies.
You have thoughts.And we both know that those thoughts don't have an end,don't have a beginning.Your mind is full of spinning memories,bothering thoughts,thousand little pieces of questions.If a question could be seperated into pieces.But yours are.Every tiny bit of every question holds its own mystery of the unknown.The other day.Tomorrow.The next tomorrow.They chase each other in your head untill you realise that they will not end.They may find their tiny bit of answer,but this answer may not be the YOUR answer.The one you need.The one you want.They will continue to follow you in your mind and occupy your time.And you will continue to push them away,to push these little endless pieces of questions and possible answers untill you fall asleep again.Because after you wake up no matter how many hours of thinking could pass,you eventually fall asleep again.That's the wonderful thing about you...You fall asleep and forget.Or you pretend to forget.Both ways work synchronically.
...Then you wake up again after minute,an hour,a day and it repeats.The images,the thoughts,the questions and their pieces,the possible answers and their tiny parts,all of them in blue,all of them in the shape of...
...blue butterflies.
(And it's true.)
One day you woke up and you don't realise it,because you already know it.You know that all you can and you will think of ...are blue butterflies.You probably can change it,but you don't do the effort...And why would you? You know how it would be.How it was supposed to be.The thing you don't know is really how it is going to be.You have images in your head of...blue butterflies.
You have thoughts.And we both know that those thoughts don't have an end,don't have a beginning.Your mind is full of spinning memories,bothering thoughts,thousand little pieces of questions.If a question could be seperated into pieces.But yours are.Every tiny bit of every question holds its own mystery of the unknown.The other day.Tomorrow.The next tomorrow.They chase each other in your head untill you realise that they will not end.They may find their tiny bit of answer,but this answer may not be the YOUR answer.The one you need.The one you want.They will continue to follow you in your mind and occupy your time.And you will continue to push them away,to push these little endless pieces of questions and possible answers untill you fall asleep again.Because after you wake up no matter how many hours of thinking could pass,you eventually fall asleep again.That's the wonderful thing about you...You fall asleep and forget.Or you pretend to forget.Both ways work synchronically.
...Then you wake up again after minute,an hour,a day and it repeats.The images,the thoughts,the questions and their pieces,the possible answers and their tiny parts,all of them in blue,all of them in the shape of...
...blue butterflies.
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