a tired temper begs me

When my temper gets too tired I wish I could retire from this maddening game

If my mother was my master would I have done better?

 And if I was your puppet would I be instrumental in my own fate?

Magic doesn’t exist I tried that once before

I have a sickness that makes me such a bore

I never asked for fevers, from a world I called a home

A seaview was far too much for a waster like I’ve been

A passenger on a ride too wild for me

I can’t take the responsibility of the things I can’t prevent 

And the pain takes over when I lie down

So my sleep never makes it right to the end

So if I was warned to be better I could have been

And just maybe I wouldn’t feel a pain in my chest when I try to ingest any lies 

I kept my secrets in a vault beneath blood and veins and costume parties

How could I be an extrovert and introvert at the same time?

The question posed but never answered as I ran over time.

When my temper gets too tired I wish I could run away

But my legs won’t carry this much weight

give us a televised war

Give me a baby to glue to my chest 

I’ll do a better job than most.

I’ll try to be organic and dynamic with my every doubting breath.

If we made love more often than those in the programmes we watched, then surely we’d be lustful despite all our faults

Would it be enough for our hearts to beat fast behind a soundtrack of television and the smashing of glass, from somewhere in Palestine or Israel’s heart, helpless and naked and ashamed of our apathy.

I don’t think my heart could have beat more.

confused little cynic

No one ever gives you real life lessons when you’re growing up.  Nothing substantial, nothing worthwhile to help you get through the pain, loneliness, boredom, confusion and ecstasy of just living on this kooky planet. 

Do you ever feel like something divine was about to happen right under your nose?  Cosmic interchanges and shifts in electromagnetic charges spark and infuse the life that beats under our feet. 

I gave up on religion when I realised the universe was alive.  I didn’t have to imagine a marvellous figure of deity.  I was uneasy about faith upon discovery of conflicting views from around the world. 

At ten years old I thought the whole world was Christian.  At twelve I realised nowhere was.  

I remained spiritually idealistic until I visited the States, and happened to be holidaying in Florida when the twin towers attracted attention in the form of a(supposed) maniacally driven terrorist at the helm of a jet.  That shouldn’t really have happened as I had cast a spell ‘blessing’ my travel.  A gigantic tragedy for the Western World it was.  For the first time I asked why.  Aren’t we all the same?  Don’t we have the same passions, loves, morals?  Yes, for the main part, we do.  At the expense of the shafting of a few (surprisingly large) meagre little countries, principalities, towns, races, we are free.  Living in the free world.

 Sometime I don’t think I ever had mental health problems.  I think I just got sick of everyone else.  If I had been left alone, I might have been fine.  Other people, no matter how genuine their intentions, have a habit of creating a mould for you.  I got stuck in so many moulds at so many different times that the casing broke.  Contrary to feeling free, I was just lost.  Really lost.  A tiny little conscience who shouldn’t really have to think about all the other consciences until they’re ready, maybe never.  I got an itinerary emailed to my brain.  No study notes, just exam after exam.  You get the mental picture. 

And so, in being lost I gained something.  Perspective.

personalised personalities

People like to be classified into little boxes.  Safe and warm in their own little kingdom, and outside the box can be a little scary.  So they are compelled to label themselves and collect opinions they can add to their complex abundant personalised personality.  Boxed by a word or a sentiment, unwavering from their chosen identities.  So we buy books on the things that we associate ourselves with, and we decorate our inner sanctums with the trinkets that make us feel content, and somehow more alive.  Magazines, television, posters and products, that are our signature.  What pleases us seems to make us whole and define our existence.

a wee bit about me

I’m 28.
I have 2 tattoos and want at least 10 more.
I love music (I’m a bit of a music snob actually).
I love animals (I have a dog, 2 rats, 3 cockatiels and a rescued maniac budgie)
I write.
I sing.
I’m a hypochondraic with bipolar tendencies and a ‘depression’ diagnosis.
I hate cliches.
I have bleached blonde hair which I rarely brush.
I love watching good television when I’m happy and bad television when I’m not.
I hate films which aren’t gloriously escapist.
I couldn’t live without my socks, my cigarettes and my coca cola.
I think everything looks better in leapord print.
I design reconstructed clothing, but can’t work my sewing machine.
I’m a cynical optimist.
I am a submissive (in the murky world of bdsm…but more about that later…)
I read the Guardian (but not enough)
I feed on graphic novels and Bright Eyes (the band, not the film).
I work in a ridiculously crap job.

I wish I had the energy to do all the things I want to do, but this little generation x-er is too whacked out on caffeine and too bittersweet about the over-talented offspring our world has spawned.  Douglas Coupland, Allen Ginsberg and Hunter S Thomson wrote everything I wanted to say, so why the fuck should I bother?