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Little girl, little girl
Why are you crying?
Inside your restless soul your heart is dying.
Little one, little one
Your soul is purging
Of love and razor blades
Your blood is surging
Runaway
From the river to the street
And find yourself with your face in the gutter
Your a stray for the salvation army
There is no place like home
When you got no place to go
Little girl, little girl
Your life is calling
The charlatans and saints of your abandon
Little one little one
The sky is falling
The lifeboat of deception is now sailing
In the wake all the way
No rhyme or reason
Your bloodshot eyes
Will show your heart of treason
Little girl little girl
You dirty liar
You're just a junkie
Preaching to the choir
Runaway
To your lost tranquility
And find yourself with your face in the gutter
You're a stray for the dregs of humanity
There is no place like home
When you got no place to go
The traces of blood
Always follow you home
Like the mascara tears
From your getaway
Your walking with blisters
and running with shears
So unholy.
Sister of grace.
Runaway
From the river to the street
And find yourself with your face in the gutter
You're a stray for the salvation army
There is no place like home
When you got no place to go
- ¿Viva La Gloria? [Little Girl] - Green Day
My birthday is tomorrow.
I've asked for books, a typewriter, two piercings (nose and horizontal brow), a tattoo (the owl for my left foot, to go with the lonely seahorse on my right), and some clothing.
To be honest, I don't expect much of anything this year.
Which is good because it means I won't be disappointed when I am pushed aside, as that is the latest trend.
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence.
http://nuddy--pants.livejournal.com/39507.html
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/article.html?id=182837
Tonight, I am filled with the madness of youth, but I am trapped in the net of how tame I really am.
Some nights, I just want to scream and yell and be out until five in the morning, walking along the beach and wearing my shirt too low and drinking too much and saying things I never wanted to tell.
Some nights, I don't want to curl up on the couch with my books and my laptop and the tea I haven't been able to make because of the kitchen being remodeled and the stove being detached.
I don't want my soft slippers and comforting cotton pants.
I want to wear too much makeup that will smear and I want my jeans to be too tight and smell of spilled liquor and I want my hands that I obsessively wash to be sticky from my own sloppy drinking of something I can no longer name in a red plastic cup.
I don't want to be the modern poet, caught up in my comforting home. I want to be Jack Kerouac. I want to be Charles Bukowski. I want to be Allen Ginsburg. I don't want to be the domesticated human.
Can't I be wild every so often?
I know I break the mold every once in a while. I know I can be a mess. I know I can, and I know I crave it, and I know I feel a little bit better, a little less soft, when my hair and my hands smell like the black kretek cigarettes I smuggle into the dark, hiding them from my Father in the middle of the night.
Why isn't anything ever enough?
