You know it's bad but it's often true,
You don't love anyone,
Because no-one loves you.
Saturday, 13 November 2010
Saturday, 16 October 2010
Children's Television.
For part of my Spanish homework this weekend, I have to watch an hour of children's television and look at the adverts inparticular, see what sort of things are advertised and whom they are aimed at.
Obviously being 17 this kind of programming isn't designed for me to say the least but I've already decided that the entire business is one created by mental pacients who I hope to God don't really think that they know anything about children.
At current there is a young material made toroise who can not count to ten and has gone to some duck to ask for help who's son has the same problem. After the owl who for some reason has a very strong welsh accent breaks everything insight, they decide to go to the beach to practice counting sandcastles. They concur their problems whilst along on a beach. Why a baby tortoise and a duckling are on a beach together I will never understand but atleast they show realistic parenting styles on this porogramme. After Owen the owl has continued to fail at simply putting some shelves together the youngsters help him and they all sing a song together to help him put the shelves together. Once a simple set of shelves have been made by an owl they then decide to go to the beach again to practice more counting.
Call me a cynic (as I am one) but Kids Tv like this is pointless...
Obviously being 17 this kind of programming isn't designed for me to say the least but I've already decided that the entire business is one created by mental pacients who I hope to God don't really think that they know anything about children.
At current there is a young material made toroise who can not count to ten and has gone to some duck to ask for help who's son has the same problem. After the owl who for some reason has a very strong welsh accent breaks everything insight, they decide to go to the beach to practice counting sandcastles. They concur their problems whilst along on a beach. Why a baby tortoise and a duckling are on a beach together I will never understand but atleast they show realistic parenting styles on this porogramme. After Owen the owl has continued to fail at simply putting some shelves together the youngsters help him and they all sing a song together to help him put the shelves together. Once a simple set of shelves have been made by an owl they then decide to go to the beach again to practice more counting.
Call me a cynic (as I am one) but Kids Tv like this is pointless...
Monday, 6 September 2010
Saturday
It's now that time, I've got to go,
Silenced emotions begin to flow,
Exploding, tears beat her cheeks as they run away,
I can't believe it's only Saturday.
All those times, I said I loved her,
Kissed her deep upon the spur,
Of a moment so romantic that it causes me pain,
Will I ever get to see her again?
What can I possibly do for her?
'Try to make it all better' ?
By telling her sweet nothings, when nothing's left to say,
I can't believe it's only Saturday.
What was my life before her?
A bare, blank page, no colour,
Anywhere. Let's go there, that's where I want to be,
Run away for a year and day in a boat colloured like a pea.
I caress her face, mixed beauty and grace,
Being a mess, I'm all over the place,
Any place would be better, carry her off, steal her away,
I can't belive it's only Saturday.
I must be off, mum's waiting,
Ringing my phone, reminding, vibrating,
Away at me, telling me, but I stay, hold her tight,
Soon another man will be her shining knight.
I let her go, imagine my future,
I can't seem to find life without her,
Her hand waves in the side mirror as we drive away,
I can't believe today is Saturday.
Silenced emotions begin to flow,
Exploding, tears beat her cheeks as they run away,
I can't believe it's only Saturday.
All those times, I said I loved her,
Kissed her deep upon the spur,
Of a moment so romantic that it causes me pain,
Will I ever get to see her again?
What can I possibly do for her?
'Try to make it all better' ?
By telling her sweet nothings, when nothing's left to say,
I can't believe it's only Saturday.
What was my life before her?
A bare, blank page, no colour,
Anywhere. Let's go there, that's where I want to be,
Run away for a year and day in a boat colloured like a pea.
I caress her face, mixed beauty and grace,
Being a mess, I'm all over the place,
Any place would be better, carry her off, steal her away,
I can't belive it's only Saturday.
I must be off, mum's waiting,
Ringing my phone, reminding, vibrating,
Away at me, telling me, but I stay, hold her tight,
Soon another man will be her shining knight.
I let her go, imagine my future,
I can't seem to find life without her,
Her hand waves in the side mirror as we drive away,
I can't believe today is Saturday.
Sunday, 5 September 2010
Today
Today isn't my day,
It belongs to someone else,
As cruel, unkind and bitter as I,
And whom I repulse.
The weather agrees with me,
Violent winds howl desire,
A means to escape, to be free,
Caught upon, barbed wire,
Although alone on this worker's wheel,
That cat on that mat,
Sat toying with that rat,
Don't tell me he don't know how I feel.
Surreal. Isn't it.
I'm telling you now, I'm not the only one,
Who's lost in this wilderness,
Without a light to turn on.
Today is not my day,
I just can't do this anymore,
My cat is howling, mother scowling,
A prisoner of my own civil war.
It belongs to someone else,
As cruel, unkind and bitter as I,
And whom I repulse.
The weather agrees with me,
Violent winds howl desire,
A means to escape, to be free,
Caught upon, barbed wire,
Although alone on this worker's wheel,
That cat on that mat,
Sat toying with that rat,
Don't tell me he don't know how I feel.
Surreal. Isn't it.
I'm telling you now, I'm not the only one,
Who's lost in this wilderness,
Without a light to turn on.
Today is not my day,
I just can't do this anymore,
My cat is howling, mother scowling,
A prisoner of my own civil war.
Friday, 3 September 2010
Pretentious/ depressing crap I write
There will always be that guiding light,
To save you upon that cold, dark night.
I hate these things,
These feelings I feel,
When everyone leaves,
And nothing is real.
Doing the little things overtime,
Keeps everything neat and fine.
There's an escape, an open door.
How I only wish, it would tell me more.
With the innocence of youth,
And a dangerous mind,
Was a curious girl,
Who questioned her kind.
With a criminal mind,
The same little girl,
Set one goal in life,
To destroy the world.
I know that you wont miss me,
but if you did this too,
Assure yourself completely,
That I'd be missing you.
With a swithblade knife and a broken heart,
She cut away back to the start.
With a broken heart and a switchblade knife,
She ended all this trouble and strife.
I will add to this. I just need to start remembering things.
To save you upon that cold, dark night.
I hate these things,
These feelings I feel,
When everyone leaves,
And nothing is real.
Doing the little things overtime,
Keeps everything neat and fine.
There's an escape, an open door.
How I only wish, it would tell me more.
With the innocence of youth,
And a dangerous mind,
Was a curious girl,
Who questioned her kind.
With a criminal mind,
The same little girl,
Set one goal in life,
To destroy the world.
I know that you wont miss me,
but if you did this too,
Assure yourself completely,
That I'd be missing you.
With a swithblade knife and a broken heart,
She cut away back to the start.
With a broken heart and a switchblade knife,
She ended all this trouble and strife.
I will add to this. I just need to start remembering things.
Attack of the masses...
It's here. It's starting again. College, it's beginning.
Somedays it feels like I'm entering the very start. Unfortunately it's the very start of the enevitable. The very end.
Ever winding down day by day, waiting for me, just waiting, lurking in the shadows. I don't know it's name. I wish I did. Somene once told me that if you give something a name, then you're less scared of it. I've asked it before, but it wouldn't tell me.
I've heard him being called depression. But there's someone else too. Never quite visible, always hiding, just one step behind. Not depression I've met him many times, know him well. Too well. She, she's something much more. She doesn't like the other people. Doesn't like seeing them. Being near them. Having to hear their screaming day after day. Deep down inside, never letting out what is real, the truth of their soul. Their fake laughs, that smile. They all fade after a while. But she knows. She always knows. And now she's waiting. Just for me.
All of a sudden there's people around me. Their voices, murmering, swarming about the lower level trying to escape. Up on high, there are these other sounds, more of happiness, joy, laughter. I don't understand. I can't compute this anymore. To many voices all shouting at me, demading me answers. Wanting to be allowed, out. Freed. It's as if they all combine together, creating an incomprhensible language, that one may never decode.
Lights are going in and out of my eyeline. Images swimming in and out of focus. My head screaming relentlessly. It's hot, was it this hot earlier? I don't remember hearing that voice before. Why are they laughing? All laughing, happy. So, so....
I fall to the floor, atleast that's not warm. A safe serenity from this vocal storm.
Somedays it feels like I'm entering the very start. Unfortunately it's the very start of the enevitable. The very end.
Ever winding down day by day, waiting for me, just waiting, lurking in the shadows. I don't know it's name. I wish I did. Somene once told me that if you give something a name, then you're less scared of it. I've asked it before, but it wouldn't tell me.
I've heard him being called depression. But there's someone else too. Never quite visible, always hiding, just one step behind. Not depression I've met him many times, know him well. Too well. She, she's something much more. She doesn't like the other people. Doesn't like seeing them. Being near them. Having to hear their screaming day after day. Deep down inside, never letting out what is real, the truth of their soul. Their fake laughs, that smile. They all fade after a while. But she knows. She always knows. And now she's waiting. Just for me.
All of a sudden there's people around me. Their voices, murmering, swarming about the lower level trying to escape. Up on high, there are these other sounds, more of happiness, joy, laughter. I don't understand. I can't compute this anymore. To many voices all shouting at me, demading me answers. Wanting to be allowed, out. Freed. It's as if they all combine together, creating an incomprhensible language, that one may never decode.
Lights are going in and out of my eyeline. Images swimming in and out of focus. My head screaming relentlessly. It's hot, was it this hot earlier? I don't remember hearing that voice before. Why are they laughing? All laughing, happy. So, so....
I fall to the floor, atleast that's not warm. A safe serenity from this vocal storm.
Monday, 30 August 2010
I do write some awful shit.
You know that one, that guy,
The one who to you is the worst,
The one who somehow seems to live,
To let you know, you're cursed.
You surely shouldn't love him,
Atleast not the way you feel,
That part of him you used to love,
It is no longer real...
And you hang, waiting for that second,
Your lone single chance,
To kidnap him, capture him,
At the least obtain a glance.
You know, once he looked at you,
Forever lost, the same shallow way,
Staring at your photograph,
Longing day after day.
You didn't seem to love him then,
Or did you just not know,
That really, you loved him dearly,
Just wouldn't let it show.
Whatever happened to that smile,
Oh how the times have changed,
His personality altered,
His emotions disarranged.
That guy you used to know,
The boy who was a man to be,
Became, manipulative, two faced and using
Born again, chaotic prosperity.
Alas he might say hi,
As he walks on by,
Give you a smile, a wave, even chat,
But you'll never mean anything more to him,
Not when he's shagging that.
He never really loved you,
No-one ever will,
They all want that pretty girl,
Perched upon that pedastle.
The one who to you is the worst,
The one who somehow seems to live,
To let you know, you're cursed.
You surely shouldn't love him,
Atleast not the way you feel,
That part of him you used to love,
It is no longer real...
And you hang, waiting for that second,
Your lone single chance,
To kidnap him, capture him,
At the least obtain a glance.
You know, once he looked at you,
Forever lost, the same shallow way,
Staring at your photograph,
Longing day after day.
You didn't seem to love him then,
Or did you just not know,
That really, you loved him dearly,
Just wouldn't let it show.
Whatever happened to that smile,
Oh how the times have changed,
His personality altered,
His emotions disarranged.
That guy you used to know,
The boy who was a man to be,
Became, manipulative, two faced and using
Born again, chaotic prosperity.
Alas he might say hi,
As he walks on by,
Give you a smile, a wave, even chat,
But you'll never mean anything more to him,
Not when he's shagging that.
He never really loved you,
No-one ever will,
They all want that pretty girl,
Perched upon that pedastle.
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
See, this is what I don't like about it.
'I'd tap that',
Said Sid from his flat,
To his mate by the window,
Not far where he sat.
'You're not wrong there',
He blurted unaware,
That sweetcheeks could hear them,
Wind flicking her hair.
'She knows where it's at!
Like a neighbourhood cat.
Bet she goes with all them,
Back-Ally-Sally and that.'
'Nah man, d'ya think?
She doesn't look kink.
Looks more like one of those,
You know, pretty n pink.'
'Mate, she looks tough,
That short hair n stuff,
Look at them eyes,
She likes it rough.'
'Ooh there's a stare.'
'At that guy over there.'
'Err what she like him for?'
'Look at his hair!'
'Stupid, gay, twat.'
'Look how he's sat.'
'Lookin' in her eyes,
All romantic and that.'
'What's wrong with us?'
'I don't know Russ.'
'All we really want is,
A shag and some fuss!'
'Ah, who gives a shit?'
'Not me man, fuck it.'
'Anyways, found that girl otherday.'
'Aw mate, was she fit?'
'Nah, but she'll do for a bit...'
Is this really all women are good for?
Said Sid from his flat,
To his mate by the window,
Not far where he sat.
'You're not wrong there',
He blurted unaware,
That sweetcheeks could hear them,
Wind flicking her hair.
'She knows where it's at!
Like a neighbourhood cat.
Bet she goes with all them,
Back-Ally-Sally and that.'
'Nah man, d'ya think?
She doesn't look kink.
Looks more like one of those,
You know, pretty n pink.'
'Mate, she looks tough,
That short hair n stuff,
Look at them eyes,
She likes it rough.'
'Ooh there's a stare.'
'At that guy over there.'
'Err what she like him for?'
'Look at his hair!'
'Stupid, gay, twat.'
'Look how he's sat.'
'Lookin' in her eyes,
All romantic and that.'
'What's wrong with us?'
'I don't know Russ.'
'All we really want is,
A shag and some fuss!'
'Ah, who gives a shit?'
'Not me man, fuck it.'
'Anyways, found that girl otherday.'
'Aw mate, was she fit?'
'Nah, but she'll do for a bit...'
Is this really all women are good for?
Oh I'm sorry, was that complaining?
Blogging. Used for; attention seeking, release of emotions, general complaints.
Hi, I'm a blogger. :) I'm irritatingly happy most of the time because there is nothing wrong with my stupidly perfect life. When I get sad, I like to let out all my emotions on my blog so that all of my blogger friends can comment with little nice things telling me what I want to hear and giving me all the attention that I want to make me feel better about my shallow, self-centered ego. Also, alike most human beings (especially teenage girls) when I feel upset I cry in front of people so that they give me love and attention and tell me how pretty I am even when I'm crying. I like boys a lot, but not the unfit ones. I hate men, they're such a load of pigs who don't give a shit about women. I have a dick, I like to fuck things with it...like you're mum!
You know what. FUCK. YOU.
If there is one thing I can not stand it's bloggers. I know, the irony of this kills me too. It's the fact that some idiot one day thought, 'Oh what isn't there in the world? I know somewhere for people to tell others about their day.' As if anyone really gives a shit what some hormonal whiney 16 year old girl/ boy did in their shitty day. Being only 17 I know a fair few of these.
General complaints are as follows:
I too would love someone to love me, whom I could love back. If it weren't for the fact that I'm emotional incapable of love, we could have a sweet little romance, with disgraceful sex, just to keep him happy ofcourse (being female I have to pretend to be lovely and straight laced). Then we could have a shit load of kids because of his massive dick always bursting those darn condoms. Whilst we're at it, why don't we just go live in a fucking shoe!
If life was really like that, I sure as hell wouldn't want to live it.
Shit happens guys, I'm sorry but unless you're going to do something meaningful, artistic or funny about your complaints, you might aswell just go and do that watery, wet thing you do...what was called again? Oh yeah. Crying.
Hi, I'm a blogger. :) I'm irritatingly happy most of the time because there is nothing wrong with my stupidly perfect life. When I get sad, I like to let out all my emotions on my blog so that all of my blogger friends can comment with little nice things telling me what I want to hear and giving me all the attention that I want to make me feel better about my shallow, self-centered ego. Also, alike most human beings (especially teenage girls) when I feel upset I cry in front of people so that they give me love and attention and tell me how pretty I am even when I'm crying. I like boys a lot, but not the unfit ones. I hate men, they're such a load of pigs who don't give a shit about women. I have a dick, I like to fuck things with it...like you're mum!
You know what. FUCK. YOU.
If there is one thing I can not stand it's bloggers. I know, the irony of this kills me too. It's the fact that some idiot one day thought, 'Oh what isn't there in the world? I know somewhere for people to tell others about their day.' As if anyone really gives a shit what some hormonal whiney 16 year old girl/ boy did in their shitty day. Being only 17 I know a fair few of these.
General complaints are as follows:
- I'm too fat.
- I'm never going to get laid.
- Nobody loves me.
- I don't think my dick is big enough.
- My boobs are more just nipples.
- That girl's fit. I'd fuck that.
- I want a nice boyfriend who'll treat me right.
- I want a fit bird who likes fucking. A lot.
I too would love someone to love me, whom I could love back. If it weren't for the fact that I'm emotional incapable of love, we could have a sweet little romance, with disgraceful sex, just to keep him happy ofcourse (being female I have to pretend to be lovely and straight laced). Then we could have a shit load of kids because of his massive dick always bursting those darn condoms. Whilst we're at it, why don't we just go live in a fucking shoe!
If life was really like that, I sure as hell wouldn't want to live it.
Shit happens guys, I'm sorry but unless you're going to do something meaningful, artistic or funny about your complaints, you might aswell just go and do that watery, wet thing you do...what was called again? Oh yeah. Crying.
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Generically Fucktarded.
Do you want the truth or a hot women jumping up and down in an invisible wet t-shirt competition?...Well, I can't give you either, but I have been told by medical professionals that I am infact a women, so we're part way there.
I was once sitting down in the media and languages computer area at college, with two people that I like to think are my friends but in reality probably don't really like me at all, discussing my general appearance, personality and why I am never going to get laid. We uncovered two words that sum up all of these things and decided that I'm just a generic fucktard. What is a 'generic fucktard'? I 'hear' you cry. Well it's a combination of; lesbian looks, short hair of ever changing colour, short stature, not really attractive in anyway, abnormally small feet and an inability to dress properly whilst also being emotionally and socially retarded. Yay.
Unfortunately, I'm just your average shit/weird/talented/misguided* (delete as you read) somewhat dyslexic 17 year A-Level student with falling grades and a desire to criticise everything I come across. I apologise in advance for my blogs being; rude, offensive, obnoxious, not to a high enough social standerd, mispelled and just generally a crock of shit. But hey, I'm not forcing you to read this. In all fairness if you have any problems with my writing, you should probably take that up with yourself, might sort out some of your 'unresolved issues' that people are telling me about all the time.
I seem to spend the majority of my time feeling inadequate and just generally not good enough for society. I then spend the rest of my time franctically trying to make my self feel better by doing the only thing I know, criticising everyone else, picking out their bad points and comparing my self. I also don't have any particular aims in life, shocking isn't it. Screw the 'when I grow up I want to be' crap, most days I feel like I've been alive for far to long anyway.
I've decided to create an account upon here to voice my unheard opinions. With the hope that even though nobody wants to hear them, someone will want to abuse their eyes in a way that their ears, they will not. Also with the disillusioned dream that one of these days someone might actually pay some atention to me and maybe love me. In all honesty though, my spanish teacher said that he likes the way that I write, he doesn't particularly appriciate me failing his subject, but he still likes the way that I write. He told me to remember him when I become a famous writer-I'll let you make your own cruel witty coments about that...So here is to you dear reader for having nothing better to do with your time than read my protentious gobshite. LP xx
I was once sitting down in the media and languages computer area at college, with two people that I like to think are my friends but in reality probably don't really like me at all, discussing my general appearance, personality and why I am never going to get laid. We uncovered two words that sum up all of these things and decided that I'm just a generic fucktard. What is a 'generic fucktard'? I 'hear' you cry. Well it's a combination of; lesbian looks, short hair of ever changing colour, short stature, not really attractive in anyway, abnormally small feet and an inability to dress properly whilst also being emotionally and socially retarded. Yay.
Unfortunately, I'm just your average shit/weird/talented/misguided* (delete as you read) somewhat dyslexic 17 year A-Level student with falling grades and a desire to criticise everything I come across. I apologise in advance for my blogs being; rude, offensive, obnoxious, not to a high enough social standerd, mispelled and just generally a crock of shit. But hey, I'm not forcing you to read this. In all fairness if you have any problems with my writing, you should probably take that up with yourself, might sort out some of your 'unresolved issues' that people are telling me about all the time.
I seem to spend the majority of my time feeling inadequate and just generally not good enough for society. I then spend the rest of my time franctically trying to make my self feel better by doing the only thing I know, criticising everyone else, picking out their bad points and comparing my self. I also don't have any particular aims in life, shocking isn't it. Screw the 'when I grow up I want to be' crap, most days I feel like I've been alive for far to long anyway.
I've decided to create an account upon here to voice my unheard opinions. With the hope that even though nobody wants to hear them, someone will want to abuse their eyes in a way that their ears, they will not. Also with the disillusioned dream that one of these days someone might actually pay some atention to me and maybe love me. In all honesty though, my spanish teacher said that he likes the way that I write, he doesn't particularly appriciate me failing his subject, but he still likes the way that I write. He told me to remember him when I become a famous writer-I'll let you make your own cruel witty coments about that...So here is to you dear reader for having nothing better to do with your time than read my protentious gobshite. LP xx
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