Underdogs and Tidal Waves

Southside of Mellow
2007-03-03 13:58:21 (UTC)

Angeles

I spilled the vague details of the transgressions of my
moral depravity last night and I feel ill today.

I need to light up my last cigarette and finish my overdue
novel.
I have much catching up to do.
I've got to limit my pleasurable transgressions in order to
complete them.

These nights are empty. I fill them up with what I lost back
then and can no longer evoke in a canvas or in a story
because I can no longer feel.

Sentiment and truth have become vices.
Depravity and lies have become glorified.


I've got the right soundtrack, the right verses, the right
looks, but I can't seem to hook the right potency.

It's aggravating, wishing for what was one of the most pure
and beautiful sensations back then, wanting to feel like
that again and have it translate well into your canvas and
novel because it was a protected truth. Nothing's been the
same since then.
You can bury yourself in parties and the empty arms of
damaged souls, clicking your heels, making the empty
promises of a liar's love, rolling off your tongue so often
that it doesn't mean a damn thing to say it repeatedly,
fooling their sentiments into thinking they mean more then
they ever really do.

But the amusement you derive in your adolescent games
doesn't fill the void. You learned selflessness and how to
ache and milk your wounds to productivity. You have nothing
now but vanity and ego. I need soul, I need feeling, I need
desire in the purest sense. Not the bodily kind I've been
chasing after. But the kind that speaks to you in the verses
of soul.




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