Saturday, March 24, 2007

my fingers itch

they never stop moving.
they never touch appropriately.
they go places you cant imagine.
they leave me behind most of the time.
they can be bought.
their quite gullible you see.
they can tell you to fuck off.
they can hurt me.

do i enjoy this that much? or do i just have nothing better to do. maybe the last one eh? all i know is that right now im all examples and points. im sitting here waiting for my father. hes late once again. times like these. i tell ya. times like these just makes me want to play this keyboard for all the life and effort she has in her. makes me just want to keep it going until i can stop and feel that slight pain in my mower arms and stiff fingers. just to go back over everything and edit. just to feel like somewhere someone will read this and maybe have some sort of opinion if not some sort of pity. hrm. maybe too much to expect or too much to put into something as inanimate as an online journal. it doesnt matter to me. your not the one typing here, your not the one grinding her teeth in absence of a cigarette. your just the reader, this is effortless for you.

dear _____.
your a real ______. sometimes i just want to ______ you until the _______ cracks a little and the ___________ falls over in a huge __________. ____________is never going to _________ until _______ realizes thats ___________. im gonna __________ to try to _____ the workings of the _____________.

friends dont waste wine when theres words to sell.

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