Your life's one track can't you see it's pointless?
Just then my knees give under me my head feels weak and suddenly it's clear to see it's not them but me who's lost my self identity as i hide behind these books i read while scribbling my poetry like art could save a wretch like me with some ideal idealogy that no one could hope to achieve and i'm never real it's just a sketch of me and every thing i've made is trite and cheap and a waste… of paint. of tape. of time.
-Bright Eyes- Waste of Paint
emo is awesome?
anyway, i no longer can type deadjournal entries. it's become irrelevant. i'll be back when i can figure this out