About
STICKS AND STONES CAN BREAK MY BONES
BUT WHIPS AND CHAINS EXCITE ME
SO TIE ME UP, AND THROW ME DOWN
AND SHOW ME HOW YOU LIKE ME
'Siting in a green grassy meadow, enjoying the warm summer breeze, big puffy clouds embracing the deep blue sky, little ducks playing in the pond, splashing about, cooling down.'
"As I sit here wishing you would notice me, I wonder, do you love me? you're always so nice, you smile at me, when I look back, I see you blush. you stay far from me, yet I always catch you staring, your eyes in daze...do you love me...? I want to ask, yet I'm so shy...would you please say you love me..." ( I read this somewhere can't remember, sounds pretty.)
To visit my home go to www.gaiaonline.com/homes?user=2263296
Me ish a ninja!
ninja
Just bring the fuzzy handcuffs.
Smile if your not wearing panties!
xd
Party hardy
drink, drink
bacardi, smoke a
blunt, throw a
party, beer is
good, sex is
heaven, ur my hoe
for 2007! (yay i got this is a text)
I want you for your body so get over it.
Commenting me makes me happy in the pants!
xd (lol j/k had to say it but pwees comment me)
ahh mindless entertainment
They try to label us, but they try in vain. We are label-less. We are not popular. But we are social. We are not outcasts. But we stand apart. We are not intelligent. We are deep. We are not silly, we are free.
The only thing we have in common with them are the masks we wear. But ours are darker. Ours are sliced in half. Like our wrists. Like our hearts.
They call us punks, or goths, or simply freaks. Beacause of the things we do, the clohtes we wear. Our self-mutilation. Done by knife or needle or ink. It doesn't matter. To them it's just a game. If they get game over, they can start again.
To us it's simply life. To us, the game over is the only escape. Yet, at the same time, game over is the cowardly way, and we scorn, spit on it till oour tainted our skin. Like giving our bodies freely to those that we think care.
These little things we do. Like pulling the knife across our skin and watching the blood well up over the skin and overflow spilling.
These little things we do, like writing stories of death, and drawing pain in it's purest form. They are simply declarations. I am sora. We are here. Here is now. Now is hell. But then I figure, might as well make hell as pretty as heaven.Don't be fooled by me.
Don't be fooled by the face I wear.
For I weaer a mask. I wear a thousand masks,
Masks that I'm afraid to take off,
And none of them are me.
I give the impression that I'm secure,
That all is sunny and unruffled with me,
Within as well as without.
But don't believe me, please.
I'm afriad the deep-down I'm nothing,
That I'm just no good, and that you
Will see this and reject me.
So I play my game, my desperate
Pretending game. With facade of
Assurance without, and a trembling
Child within. And so begins the
Parade of masks, the glittering
But empty parade of masks.
Who am I, you may wonder?
I am someone you know very well.
For I am every man you meet, and
I am every woman you meet.
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