|
| ok, since no one got it | 2003-11-09 16:02:21 ET |
Knock, Knock"
"Who's there?"
"Fishboy"
"Fishboy who?"
"Tiny f***ed a stump"
-House of 1000 Corpses
|
| ok then, on to different things | 2003-11-09 15:30:41 ET |
well, my joke/trivia seemed to be not well-recieved, so i thought i'd go back to spouting off useless information....
Did you know:
There are 12 solar-flare cycles, which mutate the developing zygote in 12 different manners, directly correlating to 12 different sun-signs of the Zodiac. interesting, huh?
|
| query | 2003-11-09 13:47:28 ET |
is it a bad thing to teach a 3yr old to say "never trust Whitey?" and if so, why? she's so danm cute saying it, lol.
|
| fun times | 2003-11-09 13:11:11 ET |
ok, last night, i discovered that i can break into my vehicle, while in a state of "altered conciousness", and still do it in less than a min. hah, they let me take my tools home to practice and play with, good times. now if only i was the type that had friends, so i had more cars to break into (without having the pigs called, of course).
|
| heh | 2003-11-08 18:36:08 ET |
yeah, i seemed to have forgotten to stress the main point. they let ME have door-opening tools... and they're trusting ME to be the one to go and rescue someone in the middle of the night. "we cook your food, we drive your cars, we gaurd you while you sleep"
-S
|
| work sucks but not as bad as unemployment | 2003-11-08 15:36:51 ET |
I've been in training for the last few days on how to break into cars. Yep, that's right boys and girls, i'm going to be one of those people who comes out and gets to play "gone in 60 seconds" when you lock your keys in your car. well, the occasional tire change or jump start comes up, or once in a while someone who ran out of gas.
So far, i've been trained in fords. did an f-150, a taurus, a ranger, an explorer, and a thunderbird. i've also broke into my jeep cherokee to the point where i can break into it in under a min. next we move on to gm, and then i can't wait untill we get to foriegn and high-end cars.
Bonus! LMAO, my manager specificaly told me: "blowjobs are tips only, not a form of payment". With a manager that can be that easy going, it can't be all bad.
-S
|
| A little explanation | 2003-11-07 20:30:48 ET |
Ok, many (well, probably just a handful) of you have heard me speak very negativly about my enviornment and location. A little piece of insight, not only have I ALWAYS lived no more than 15 mins from Palm Beach (where the Trump and Kennedy estates are, and all the rest of the SUPER elite... A minature, costal Beverly Hills), but here's a little tidbit to clue you in on what this place does to people.
Remember, or heard of Charles Whitman? The Texas Bell-Tower Sniper? Well, boys and girls, he lived right here in my current location, Lake Worth, Florida (heh, still less than 15 mins away from Palm Beach)
Are things starting to fall into place now? lol
-S
|
| running a close second.... | 2003-11-07 12:13:26 ET |
America
Allen Ginsberg
America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for
murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
Whenever I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
from Russia.
I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 mph and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they're all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1935 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take
our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
::finis::
(isn't decadent poetry the best?)
-S
|
| my favorite poem | 2003-11-07 11:35:54 ET |
Once if my memory serves me well...
by Arthur Rimbaud
Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.
One evening I took Beauty in my arms - and I thought her bitter - and I insulted her.
I steeled myself against justice.
I fled. O witches, O misery, O hate, my treasure was left in your care. I have withered within me all hope. With a silent leap of a sullen beast I downed and strangled every joy.
I have called for executioners; I want to perish chewing on their gun butts. I have called for plagues, to suffocate in sand and
blood. I have laid down in the mud, and dried myself off in the crime-infested air. I have played the fool to the point of madness.
And springtime brought me the frightful laugh of an idiot.
Now recently, when I found myself ready to croak! I thought to seek the key to the banquet of old, where I might find an appetite again.
That key is Charity (This idea proves I was dreaming!)
"You will stay a hyena, etc.....", shouts the demon who once crowned me with such pretty poppies. "Seek death with all your desires, and all selfishness, and all the Seven Deadly Sins."
Ah, I've taken too much of that: still, dear Satan, don't look so annoyed, I beg you! And while waiting for a few belated cowardices, since you value in a writer all lack of descriptive or didactic flair, I pass you these few foul pages from the diary of a Damned Soul.
:::finis:::
-S
|
| gratuitious quoting, and a rant... | 2003-11-01 15:11:00 ET |
"Lolita,
light of my life,
fire of my loins.
My sin,
my soul.
Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita."
Now for the rant. If you examine the opening of that wonderful book by Vladimir Nabokov, you can't help but to be struck by the sheer simple beauty and elegance of it.
This is what disturbs me so much: English wasn't his first language, nor even his second!
Most people, born, raised and educated in this country don't even have a quarter of the mastery of the language that Nabokov did. Isn't there something just the slightest bit wrong with that picture?
-S
|
| compare and contrast (subtitled: arn't i incredibly dull and boring, or look at me, i have no life) | 2003-10-31 21:37:28 ET |
4 entries found for agnostic.
ag·nos·tic
n.
One who believes that it is impossible to know whether there is a God.
One who is skeptical about the existence of God but does not profess true atheism.
One who is doubtful or noncommittal about something.
adj.
Relating to or being an agnostic.
Doubtful or noncommittal: “Though I am agnostic on what terms to use, I have no doubt that human infants come with an enormous ‘acquisitiveness’ for discovering patterns” (William H. Calvin).
----------------------------------------------------------
ag·nosti·cal·ly adv.
Word History: An agnostic does not deny the existence of God and heaven but holds that one cannot know for certain whether or not they exist. The term agnostic was fittingly coined by the 19th-century British scientist Thomas H. Huxley, who believed that only material phenomena were objects of exact knowledge. He made up the word from the prefix a-, meaning “without, not,” as in amoral, and the noun Gnostic. Gnostic is related to the Greek word gnsis, “knowledge,” which was used by early Christian writers to mean “higher, esoteric knowledge of spiritual things” hence, Gnostic referred to those with such knowledge. In coining the term agnostic, Huxley was considering as “Gnostics” a group of his fellow intellectuals“ists,” as he called themwho had eagerly embraced various doctrines or theories that explained the world to their satisfaction. Because he was a “man without a rag of a label to cover himself with,” Huxley coined the term agnostic for himself, its first published use being in 1870.
Source: The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition
Copyright © 2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company.
Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
agnostic
\Ag*nos"tic\, a. [Gr. 'a priv. + ? knowing, ? to know.] Professing ignorance; involving no dogmatic; pertaining to or involving agnosticism. -- Ag*nos\"tic*al*ly, adv.
Source: Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary, © 1996, 1998 MICRA, Inc.
agnostic
\Ag*nos"tic\, n. One who professes ignorance, or denies that we have any knowledge, save of phenomena; one who supports agnosticism, neither affirming nor denying the existence of a personal Deity, a future life, etc.
Source: Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary, © 1996, 1998 MICRA, Inc.
agnostic
adj : uncertain of all claims to knowledge [syn: agnostical] [ant: gnostic] n : a person who doubts truth of religion [syn: doubter]
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| bet this one doesn't get a comment, lol | 2003-10-31 21:21:30 ET |
5 entries found for Gnostic.
Gnos·tic
adj.
gnostic Of, relating to, or possessing intellectual or spiritual knowledge.
Of or relating to Gnosticism.
n.
A believer in Gnosticism.
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[Late Latin Gnsticus, a Gnostic, from Late Greek Gnstikos, from Greek gnstikos, concerning knowledge, from gnsis, knowledge. See gnosis.]
Source: The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition
Copyright © 2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company.
Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
Gnostic
\Gnos"tic\, a. 1. Knowing; wise; shrewd. [Old Slang]
I said you were a gnostic fellow. --Sir W. Scott.
2. (Eccl. Hist.) Of or pertaining to Gnosticism or its adherents; as, the Gnostic heresy.
Source: Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary, © 1996, 1998 MICRA, Inc.
Gnostic
\Gnos"tic\, n. [L. gnosticus, Gr. ? good at knowing, sagacious; as a n., man that claims to have a deeper wisdom, fr. gignw`skein to know: cf. F. gnostique. See Know.] (Eccl. Hist.) One of the so-called philosophers in the first ages of Christianity, who claimed a true philosophical interpretation of the Christian religion. Their system combined Oriental theology and Greek philosophy with the doctrines of Christianity. They held that all natures, intelligible, intellectual, and material, are derived from the Deity by successive emanations, which they called Eons.
Source: Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary, © 1996, 1998 MICRA, Inc.
Gnostic
adj 1: of or relating to Gnosticism; "Gnostic writings" [syn: Gnostic] 2: possessing intellectual or esoteric knowledge of spiritual things [ant: agnostic] n : an advocate of gnosticism
|
| ear candy | 2003-10-31 19:26:30 ET |
current music: red-angel dragnet by the clash
|
| out of sheer boredom | 2003-10-31 18:20:46 ET |
current drink: tequila and sobe power sluripe. lol
|
| seemed appropriate for the holliday. | 2003-10-31 18:01:57 ET |
ps: five bonus points if you remember using ANSI
|
| a poem for the evening | 2003-10-31 15:41:22 ET |
wasted flesh and wasted breath
another hallow's eve wasted alone.
another night of tear-stained sheets.
another night of wondering when you will eat again.
another verse of wasted breath.
another thousand holes torn into my already tattered soul.
another set of deaf ears my hopeless pleas fall apon.
another night with the barrel of a gun in my mouth.
another verse of wasted breath.
wasted flesh stretched over weary bones.
wasted breath inside a caving chest.
a pool of blood pouring out of my forever silenced mouth.
-S
|
| Gratuitous Long Hair Shot | 2003-10-25 10:08:10 ET |
Since I got laughed at for the pony tail, by all of you wonderful people....
-S
|
| to eliminate all confusion | 2003-10-23 11:51:15 ET |
just to eliminate all confusion, i have not (nor will i probably ever) cut my hair off. I've been asked that, several times now, and i thought i might just address the issue to put to rest any doubt or confusion that may have arisin. I pull my hair back, occassionally. Usually for work, when i really need my hair out of my face, or when it's just too hot to have it down. This seems to be the root of most of the confusion.
Me with a ponytail, people's exibit one.
-S
|
| pity tears at you with claws | 2003-10-22 22:33:59 ET |
|
| Art inspired by Amorousness | 2003-10-18 20:51:13 ET |
This is quite old, many years, and on my webpage (but i just came acrossed it, and figgured might as well post).
Waking Dream
She slowly turns the knob on the large wooden door,
Pulling it open she walks inside.
The room is dark except for several lit candles.
The air is thick with incense
She stops and looks around the room.
Shadows dance on the walls.
They seem to ripple as if they are made of cloth and not wood.
She sees figures in the corners of the room
Shadows like, visible but not really there.
There is a strange chanting in the background,
Barely audible, almost like a hum.
In a language long forgotten,
She loks toward the center of the room as she feels his stare.
Those cat-like green eyes piercing her soul.
He calls to her without saying a word,
She walks to the foot of the large bed he is sitting on,
He opens her robe,
Giving herself to him,
He takes her into his arms,
And kisses her deeply.
Lying her in the center of the bed,
He caresses her face as he kisses her gently,
Kissing her forehead, her eyelids, and her soft lips.
Biting her neck,
Kissing her stomach and breasts,
She lays there moaning
Quivering under his burning touch.
Overcome with desire,
She sighs as he enters her,
Filling the emptiness in her soul.
They lay there for hours making love,
Tangled in the sheets and each others arms,
Cumming together the room explodes in a brilliant white light.
:::finis:::
-S
|
| Quick quiz #1 | 2003-10-18 19:30:07 ET |
Quick little survey.
If you could go anywhere in the world and time, where and when would it be, and why?
(For me, it would be Egypt, specifically the Library of Alexandria, in it's prime. For reasons of pure desire for knowledge and Enlightenment)
So, where would YOU go?
-S
|
| The Human 'Disease' | 2003-10-15 16:17:57 ET |
|
| The things people say.... (A rant, be forwarned) | 2003-10-15 12:18:53 ET |
Alright, to preface my little rant, i'll explain what spurned it.
Last night a friend who moved to Az (Jordan), and I haven't seen in a year, was supposed to come over and hang out.
To make a long story short, hours later he shows up with an acquaintance/semi-friend of mine (Ben) and we go to the Pub for a couple of Pints. I'm not a drinker in the first place, plus I spend money i can't afford, to celebrate his visit. I'm ignored the whole time there and to the walk back to Ben's, so i turn and go home.
They can't understand why i felt put out. I finally talked to one of them, and when i said i felt like a third wheel....
Ok, now we're up to my rant about the stupid things people (and I find myself not totally without blame) say.
when i said i went home because i felt like a third wheel, he said, of course "dude, that was never the intention".
No shit
how many times do we say things like that? "never meant to upset you."; "never meant to make you feel put out"; "i never set out to cheat on you"; "didn't mean to drop that anvil on your foot"......
No shit
Does anyone really wake up one morning and go "you know, I'm going to hurt my friend's feelings" or "i think my goal today is to cheat on my spouse" or even "gee, wouldn't it be swell to make so-and-so feel like a third wheel?"
For some odd reason, we feel that stating the blatantly obvious is some form of excuse. that it absolves us in some way (who knows, maybe for the sheer fact of showing our own stupidity).
I have found that we say these things, not because we find them the right thing to say, or because we can't do any better, but out of sheer habit.
-----------------------------------------------------------
YOUR MISSION (if you chose to accept it):
If not break free, at least try to be able to observe and analyze those daily habits in your life that keep you from thinking and instead react mechanically.
-----------------------------------------------------------
I'd love to hear any other insights, or results that you might have. Or not... I know this involves that nasty and offensive "E-word", Effort.
another pointless rant, by your humble narrator.
-S
|
| Death II, The Sequal (Doesn't everything have one, these days?) | 2003-10-14 12:39:39 ET |
today's entry
Highly doubt anyone will even follow the link, let alone put in the effort to read the story..... VERY curious to know what anyone thinks, if they actually do.
-S
|
| Death | 2003-10-13 14:50:59 ET |
i feel death very close at hand.
[untitled]
you know what i realized just the other day?
90% of my poetry is not really just poems.
each time, inside i feel like i'm dying.
and what i'm writing is my suicide note, or my epitaph.
:::finis:::
-S
|
| dissapoitment | 2003-09-24 06:53:55 ET |
I must say, joining this site was one of the hardest i ever had to TRY to be disappointed and ignored... It seemed like a warm welcome, but i guess that's the way it goes..... If i wanted to talk to myself, well, i'd just be myself, i don't need any help from some website to do that.... oh joy, oh joy... and to think i did this to make friends... i haven't conversed with one single person i didn't know BEFORE my membership on here... ...just kind of makes everything you do seem a little futile....
Bottom Drawer of Broken Promises
I have a bottom drawer full of broken promises of love, eternal or otherwise…
I have a thousand memories of intimate moments that lay broken and shattered on the ground of my psyche… I keep both groups as souvenirs, just like one keeps the ashes of a dead loved one, or a jar of soil from one’s native country to which they can never return. What is it about love that makes it both the best and worst experiences in our lives? Your most passionate relationship becomes your greatest heartbreak, and yet, years later, you would gladly go through it all again just to be back where you once were.
All the one's I've ever fell for are embedded in the fabric of my soul. I am unable to free myself from the loss of love, because I am unable to free myself from my own heart and soul. You cannot run from your own feelings, from your own memories… When you love someone so much that they become a part of you, you cannot rid yourself of them. It as if once the poison is in the blood it is never metabolized out, that it stays within the system until death. The only way to eliminate the pathogen is to eliminate the patient.
Am I just a hopeless romantic, a sentimental fool to try not to believe the Buddhist teachings on desire? Am I just being stubborn, stupid, or both when I seek happiness through love rather than through the willful, and deliberate destruction of my desires and attachments? Is it impossible to want to be loved and to want to be Enlightened at the same time? Are they a contradiction? My heart and soul have been crushed, my hopes trampled. What is a poor and weary man like I to do? Should I try to go on seeking love, or stick my feelings in the bottom drawer with all those broken promises?
:::finis:::
-S
|
| self-degredation for fun and enlightenment (subtitled the educational value of absurdity) | 2003-09-23 15:19:35 ET |
hon·ky or hon·kie also hon·key
n. Offensive Slang pl. hon·kies, also hon·keys
Used as a disparaging term for a white person.
[Possibly blend of Wolof honq, red, pink, of light complexion, and hunky1.]
-----------------------------------------------------------
crack·er
n.
1. A thin crisp wafer or biscuit, usually made of unsweetened dough.
2. One that cracks, especially:
a. A firecracker.
b. A small cardboard cylinder covered with decorative paper that holds candy or a party favor and pops when a paper strip is pulled at one or both ends and torn.
c. The apparatus used in the cracking of petroleum.
d. One who makes unauthorized use of a computer, especially to tamper with data or programs.
Offensive.
3. Used as a disparaging term for a poor white person of the rural, especially southeast United States.
4. Used as a disparaging term for a white person.
5. A nickname to designate a poor white in some parts of the Southern United States
Source: The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition
Copyright © 2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company.
Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
A Irishman was once asked if he believed in Pookahs, a "paranormal being" often attributed with wise but childish/prankster tendencies or something like a cross between a leprechaun and the Native American perspective of the Coyote (often times being seen as a large white rabbit! Seen "Harvey", boys and girls?). His very bluntly responded to the interviewer "No sir, I cannae say that I do, but if you went and asked a Pookah, I reckon he doesn't believe in me, either."
This post doesn't make sense to you? Good, you've just experienced step one in `Guerilla Ontology' (go look that one up yourself).
-S
|
| Sorting through forgotton poetry | 2003-09-17 22:35:27 ET |
Written maybe 6 or 7 years ago....
Words
Words may be just characters on a page,
Syllables spoken from person to person,
Thoughts in one's head.
But word are all we have.
The only way to convey emotions,
To share experiences,
Without words we would be doomed to total isolation.
Each person is already an island,
Unable to share thoughts or emotions with anyone but ourselves,
Confined to our own heads.
Words being our only way of release from solitude,
Our only way to share thoughts.
Even then, sumbols can never be what they represent,
we cannot truly understand an idea of someone else's
For it is corrupted in the process of cummunication.
But wthout words we would have nothing,
Being reduced to sniffing and grunting.
So cherish words,
Do not ignore them,
Also, speak not empty words, words without meaning,
Talk not to hear yopurself.
They are to be used wisely.
For though we are cursed with half understanding
half truth.
I can think of a far worse fate.
|
| Yes, I'm a flake! | 2003-09-15 21:48:08 ET |
I just needed to give a little rant, here, at the moment.
Alright, I'm a flake, I know this. It's in my artistic/poetic nature. I'm absent-minded, self-absorbed, flighty, and all of those other wonderful traits that come with being of artistic temperament.
I think I make all of this rather obvious to the world around me, but I still am always getting myself into trouble with it. People assume that they've done something wrong, or you're being a jerk, or you don't pay attention to them.
Is it something specific about me or the fact that I'm usually so attentive and compassionate, or is it in our narcissistic human nature to assume that everything that goes wrong was done intentionally against us?
Maybe my attention to odd little details, or the fact that I get sucked into things is a blend of my artistic nature and doing too much Acid when I was younger, who knows? I do know that it allows me to create, but alienates me from the outside world. Maybe I should just staple a note onto my forehead that reads: I'm an artistic flake, don't mind me!
Well, that's my rant for the day. I'm glad you enjoyed it, and if you didn't, well then why the hell did you read this far anyway!?
-S
"huh? what? oh, i'm sorry. could you repeat what you just said? i missed it all, i was watching your face melt...."
|
| For some reason, Sharks came to mind | 2003-09-15 21:32:48 ET |
Hello there, my early guests. I shall be your guide through this journey into madness. Care for a drink before we begin?
Now, if you are refreshed, how about a taste of my writings that goes with your beverage?
Red Wine and a Broken Heart
The taste of red wine and clove cigarettes.
Billy Holiday serenading me over the speakers.
Hope of love smashed on the jagged rocks below a high cliff.
The roar of the ocean below.
Always constant, never changing.
Red wine and a broken heart.
Mourn it all go, as your world falls apart.
A heart full of tears and a glass of wine, red
To feel pain as this is to be better off dead.
Thoughts racing so fast, yet everything comes slow.
The sorrowful, romantic jazz lulling you into the familiar womb of despair.
The longing for love to painful to bear.
Red wine and a broken heart.
Mourn it all go, as your world falls apart.
A heart full of tears and a glass of wine, red
To feel pain as this is to be better off dead.
Red wine and a broken heart is all the poet needs.
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