#‘the heart i gave you was a decoy/ im just here to destroy/love/love/love’ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wormy-aezthetics-moved · 5 years

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fandom lyrics that made me feel like i was being gutted like a fish

“i dont want my life since you changed your mind”

“i’ll never be enough until it’s too late”

“youre selfish and a half, and the other half is me, whos apparently not mad enough to get up and to leave”

“its too easy to hate you, and youre hard to love”

“we were friends, but now im vexed and pissed and confident”

“i’ll just stay alone because alone is safer than with you”

“my names otto and my names geoff a̩͙̽ͧ́̕n̻͚̲̝͑̇ͬ̎ͭͭ͋̕ͅḍ̴̨̗͎͙̻̦͑̌̓̄̉̓͆͞ ̨̱̰̠̲ͫ̌̌͑̓̐̆͌m̡̹̗͖͈ͣͥͪ͐ỳ̖͚͚̠ͥ͋̈̅͠ ̤́̎̓ͯn̨̹̪͈̲̺͚̱̑̐͗́͆ͨ̉͝ͅä̤̱͎͙́͐̌̒̂mͥ͆̓̑̓̌̑҉̲̘͓͔̝͇̭͕̜e͛̐̉̕҉͉̝̱̹̥̤'̣̹ͪ̋̑́ͩͬ͒̇ͥ͠s̯̠̣̖̮̱̖̍͒ͥͧ͗ͬ͑͌́ ̛̰̼̱͍̙̯̦̺͂̀̊͑̀ͧḁ̰̲̪̗̆̋w̗̗̩̟̤͚̯̬̃̓̔̃͌s̳͎̝̩ͦ̾ͨ̈̎ͧͩͣ̎t̸͛ͯ͟͏̗͍ͅę̪̙͕̙͇̬͛̊ͮͬ͒̈́̚͟͜ṇ̞̇̇̔͌ͮ͌ͩͫ́͘ and we’re all friends! :)”

“my anxiety was turbulent and permanent”

“you gave me hell on earth and said to “work with it”

“i guess you messed me up, ill pay for this”

“it’s my fault i miss my friends, i’m lonely every day”

“i’m forgetting how to hate myself; i saved my own life”

“give back my halo you stole- it’s silver and cold”

“i used to want to save you, now i don’t”

“you’re not worth another headache, you’re dead weight, you’re gonna be just like your mother”

“the heart i gave you was a decoy, i’m just here to destroy”

“i said i loved you to death so i must be dead!”

“it makes me sick you know my skin”

#interests.txt #waterparks #parx #fandom #fandom spoilers #fandom album #long post #apart from groupchat these r just #lyrics that . yknow. they hit hard for me for perrsonal reasons #ask to tag

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suulphr · 4 years

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ALL HAIL TO THE BLACK IN TOMORROWS NIGHT, THE NEXT IS FORTH AND FORWARD, THE BLACK IN MY EYES IS TURNING CORDLESS UPWARD, SKYWARD

HIGH TO LOW AND TIDES RECEDING, RECOILING AS THE METAL FALLS UNSTABLE AND EXPANDS HOT AND DE-SHAPES THE LAND THAT IS SOAKED AFTER HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF YEARS OF BLOODSHED THAT LEADS TO FLOODING AND EATS THE STORY ALIVE. THIS IS THE STORY OF BLOOD.

THE PACK OF HUNGRY LIONS HEARS THE DISTRESS CALL OF A YOUNG GIRL AND HER YOUNG BLOOD IS RECTIFIED AND MOVES CAREFREE BUT CAREFUL AND STEPPING AROUND INNOCENCE UNTIL SHE IS ALONE, THE LIONS FOLLOW HER TO THE ROAD. THE SOULLESS MEN LEFT UNREMEMBERED AND BLOODY IN THE WOODED JUNGLE TURN COLD.

WHY ARE YOU HAUNTED? YOU COULD WANDER FOREVER, JUST WALK RIGHT OFF THE EDGE.

BLUE LINOLEUM AND PINK GLASS MILK PITCHERS CIRCA 1991

SANDCASTLES TOPPLING IN LIVING ROOMS,

HOODED GLOWING EYES UNDER HOODS RIDING DEATHLESS ON HORSEBACK TO THE BLACKENED NIGHT-VEIL

A CAMOUFLAGED COLLAGE OF FRESH RED MEAT AND TEETH BARED TO THE GROUND OVER TAPE-DRAWN BODIES OUTLINED AND BLOOD SPATTERED PATTERNS MIMICKING OVERFLOWING RIVERBEDS SWELLED TO LAKES AND COOLING LAVA

//OUR SANTA MUERTE, O GREAT LADY OF DEATH, WHO WILL COME FOR US ALL, KIND AND GENTLE BE YOUR KISS. WHEN YOU COME TO END MY LIFE, MAY I BE FREE OF ANY REGRETS. THANK YOU FOR THIS DAY, ONE MORE BEAUTIFUL DAY, THAT I MAY HAVE IT TO LIVE, LOVE, AND LAUGH MY OWN WAY. AMEN. - -

THAT MAYBE IF MY ENVIRONMENT IS WORKING WITH MY AMBITIONS TO STAY CLEAN AND HEALTHY, THERE STILL MIGHT BE A POSSIBILITY THAT THEY’LL SAW CLEAN THROUGH THE HINGED-FRAME OF MY SNOW-COLORED SKULL LIKE GIFT-WRAPPING OVER A HARD-COVER BOOK AND MY THOUGHTS COULD STILL BREATHE FREE, CLEAN LIKE POEMS DOTTING THE EDGES OF LINED PAPER LIKE FLOATING SINGING PRAYER FLAGS LIGHTING UP IN THE WIND AND SUNNED-STRETCH SHOW OF SHINING SNOW BLANKETING HIGHTOP MOUNTAINS WHILE STUDENTS OF THE UNKNOWABLE AND DIVINE REALMS LEAVE THEIR BLOOD AND BODIES AND COME BACK FROM OVERLOOKING INFINITE WORLDS BELOW.

PRAYING FOR PEACE, AND NOT TO BE EATEN ALIVE, AT LEAST NOT WITH THIS MUCH HATE FOR THE IGNORANT WHO KNOW NOT WHAT THEY DO AND ACID-DAMP-COLD-BUT-BURNING FLESHING OUT THE UNTIMED MOVEMENTS TRYING TO CLEAVE A SPACE FOR ANYTHING BRIGHT AND TEMPERATE, NON-EXTREME, SO I DON’T HAVE TO PASS DOWN THE CONFUSION AND SOMEONE STRUGGLES TO GET THE POISON OUT OF DIRTY NAILS, UNBITTEN BUT UNKEPT AND TOO-BUSY SCREAMING TO FIND THE RUBBING ALCOHOL AND NOT EDUCATED ENOUGH TO KNOW WHETHER IT WILL HELP OR NOT.

YOU CAN PUT ISOPROPYL ALCOHOL ON AREAS OF THE SKIN TOUCHED BY POISON IVY TO AVOID A RASH BUT IF YOU PUT IT ON A SNAKE BITE IT WILL SLOW THE HEALING PROCESS, MOVING AROUND WILL MAKE THE VENOM SPREAD FASTER THROUGH THE BODY. A SNAKE CAN MISTAKE ITS OWN TAIL FOR PREY AND ACCIDENTALLY POISON ITSELF, WHILE SOME SPECIES HAVE BECOME IMMUNE TO THEIR OWN VENOM.

“It never gets easier, you just get better.”

CALM DOWN, WALK LIGHT OVER THE GATE, OVER THE BRIDGE, UNDER IT ON TOO-HOT DAYS, VISION BLURRING OR MELTING AS THE WIND PICKS UP, FATED, SOMETHING ILL AND NUMB STIRRING IN THE EYES-SIDING ALONG AND SILENTLY PRAYING FOR DEATH.

The Sumerians told a story that said while Enki and Ninmah were setting to create the earth, as lesser gods, they were burdened by the task and complained to the primeval mother, Namma, about their hard work. She then urged Enki to create a substitute to complete the work for them, she took up clay to knead and gave birth to the first humans. Enki was then tasked to “educate” them. I AM SELFBORN FROM THE THE HEART OF THE MOVING LAND. I REMEMBER THE DAY STRANGE MEN LOOKING TORN FROM THE HIGHER DENSITY DESCENDED FROM THE SKY TO ALREADY FERTILE LAND LOOKING FOR SOME FALSE EXPANSION THEY BROUGHT OVER FROM ANOTHER STAR SYSTEM. HOW MUCH WEIGHT IS MY FLOATING BLOOD WORTH IN MONOATOMIC GOLD AND WHERE DOES THE SEA TURN INTO THE SHORE AND WHATS THE LINE BETWEEN THE SHORE AND THE SAND.

DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU SEE, IF LIFE HAS NO GUARANTEE THAN DEATH IS JUST ON VACATION AND I’M RECITING ANCIENT POEMS THAT ARE TUGGING INFINITE AND MERCILESSLY ON THE ROPES HIDING, DESCENDING BELOW THE RING-EDGE OF THE WELL SWINGING MY HEART DRUNK ON BLOOD AND HOW SILLY THAT I USED TO THINK NO ONE WOULD REMEMBER ME AND HOW NOW I AM RE-READING WORDS WRITTEN SOFTLY BY FIRELIGHT A HANDFUL OF STRETCHED CENTURIES-WORTH OF LETTERS AND POSTCARDS AWAY FROM ME WHERE I AM AND BY HANDS NO LONGER MOVING WITH THEIR BLOOD BUT IM GLEAMING, SMILING WIDE ON THE INSIDE AND THINKING ABOUT REVENGE AND CONSEQUENCES AND BARRIERS AND BORDERS AND RED ROOMS, RED SHOES BURNED BLACK AND TURNED ASH, RED HARD-COVER BOOKS AND PAINTED-WHITE BRICK CELLS A HOP OVER FROM THE IDEA OF THE FUTURE NEXT TO A BURNING HASH BUSH AND FALLING REGIMES MASKING DECAY LIKE A DEATH DECOY.

OLD TAPES AND OLD BOOKS DESTROYED.

I’M THINKING SOFTLY ABOUT LEAVING AND NEVER COMING BACK AND THEN RABBITS FOOT SCREECHING GOOD-LUCK DREAMS AND ROOTS AND SKIES AND SEEDS AND SEA-CLEAN-SUN-VISION-REEF-OF-LIVING-SCENES. I’M BREATHING FOR FREE.

BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOS HIGHLIGHTING THE STRUCTURAL CONSISTENCY OF CHAOS AND HOW NATURE BENDS ITSELF FOREVER UPWARD TOWARD LIFE, FOREVER CIRCLING DOWN TOUCHING SOIL TO SOUL TO ROOT AND SAP-BLOOD CASCADING LIKE ANY OLD PIECE OF AMBER POLISHING A RACKET INSIDE THE TUMBLER AND FINDING MOVEMENT AGAIN ACROSS OPEN ROADS AND SHADE AND LIGHT CUTTING THROUGH THE WINDOWS.

I NEVER THOUGHT THAT I WOULD GET HERE TO WHERE I AM NOW, HAPPY AND LEANING INTO IT STILL NOT EXPECTING ANYTHING, STRETCHING COLD BUT GETTING THERE AND IM TRYING NOT TO BURN EVERYTHING I TOUCH BUT I FEEL THIS LIGHT HEAT-CRACKING THROUGH ALL THE SCARS IN MY SKIN. VOICE TAPPING UNSURE AT MY THROAT AND I STILL HAVE HOPE BUT ITS NOT MUCH BUT I GUESS I AM MAKING IT ENOUGH.

I SEE EYES MILES AWAY GLOWING THROUGH DENSE DARK TREES, TIME-TRAVELING STANDING STILL TO 1977 IN FRANCE FOR THE LAST PUBLIC EXECUTION BY GUILLOTINE, HE DIED 12 DAYS AWAY FROM HIS BIRTHDAY AT 27 YEARS OLD AFTER KIDNAPPING AND MURDERING HIS 22 YEAR OLD GIRLFRIEND. HIS DEFENSE REVOLVED AROUND THE AMPUTATION OF HIS LEG SIX YEARS EARLIER WHICH HIS LAWYER CLAIMED HAD DRIVEN HIM TO ALCOHOL ABUSE AND VIOLENCE, “TURNING HIM INTO A DIFFERENT MAN.”

I PICTURE A BEHEADED GHOST WALKING AROUND CARRYING HIS HEAD AND TRYING TO FEED HIMSELF RED-WINE AND IT JUST FALLS THROUGH THE EXPOSED WINDPIPE. HE INTRODUCES HIS HEADLESS BODY TO THE BODY-LESS HEAD AND THEN ASKS HIMSELF HOW DID HE GET SO AT CHEST-LEVEL?

PICTURE OF BLOOD CLIMBING THE GRAVITY FROM THE THIRD-STORY CRASHED WINDOW TO THE FLOOR BELOW.

SOAKED-RED MEDICAL TOOLS, LACE-WHITE DOILIES MUTING THE DARK METAL CLANK OF THE GUN SET AGAINST THE WARM WOODEN NIGHTSTAND, NEXT TO THE CERAMIC-WHITE CHERUB STATUE AND THE OFF-WHITE LAMP LIGHTING THE GREEN ARMCHAIR. CHRISTMAS COLORS A NAIVE SENTIMENTALITY CONTRASTED AGAINST THE HALO OF BRIGHT BLOOD AND BRAIN-MATTER PAINTING THE WHITE WALL RED AND TURNING MY LUNCH INTO SICK OPEN-AIR GREEN. THE CARDINALS SINGING IN THE BRANCH-SHADE-COOLING-BUT-LIGHT-SKIP PEPPERED ORGANIZED CHAOS OF PINE TREES PROTRUDING SPIKED AND EVERGREEN FROM THE COLD AND WARM GROUND. THE SOUND IS CLEAN.

THE COMPLICATED OVER-GLORIFIED MOLTOV COCKTAIL TURNS-MISSES THE CROWD AND HITS ARMORED POLICE.

THE FIRE TRANSMUTES INTO GOLDEN-POISON-ORANGE FROM THE PAINTED IMAGE OF ARMY GREEN, CRACK-POP-SPARKLING THE METAL LIKE REMEMBER HOW YOU GOT THIS SHAPE, THE SUN BOILED THE WOOD FOR THE PENCIL TO DRAW THIS BLUEPRINT OF IMPOSING PUKE-GRIME-SALT-AND-SCUM-OF-NATURES-HYBRID-DEATH-TALKERS HAILING A COLOR AND STALKING BLOOD AND DROWNING IN IT WHILE TRYING TO CAMOUFLAGE INTO THE HEAVY WOODLAND, DODGING GREEN SWAYING TREES, NOT REALIZING RED IS THE DIRECT OPPOSITE COLOR ON THE PAINTERS WHEEL MEANING CONTRAST HIGHLIGHTS IRONY AND THE NIGHT IS BLACK LIKE CLOSING YOUR EYES. MOVEMENT IS EASIER TO DEFINE THAN COLOR. THE SOUND IS CLEAN, THE POISON-ORANGE SPARK REVERTS-OPPOSITE IMPRINTING THE SPOT TURQUOISE TO THE FLESH OF THE EYE. THE SILENCED FOOTSTEPS ARE HEAVY WITH THE QUIET UNCLEAN PAUSE-BEAT OF TWILIGHT SEARCHING FOR SMALLER, QUIET VOICES TRAINED ON THE SHAPE OF THE LIGHT FIXTURE, FOCUSED PATIENT ON FLESHY GREEN ROADS LINED IN CONSISTENT LEAVING AND ALMOST LEAVING AND SOMETIMES COMING BACK FOR A CAMERA SUSPENDED TRI-LEGGED AND SHUTTER OPEN 30 MINUTES TO GET THE SHAPE OF THE LIGHT BENDING EXTENDED AND JUST MOVING ALONG BRANCHES AS THE LINE BETWEEN THE DAY AND THE NIGHT FADES FROM INKWELL, TO DARK END OF THE OCEAN, TO FOREST-FIRE-SMOKE YELLOW-GREY, TO POTENT-CLEAR BUT NOT SATURATED LILAC, THEN MORNING HEAT MELTING THE AIR INTO COTTON-CANDY BLUE UNTIL ITS TOO STUCK-STICKY-SWEET TO KEEP SLEEPING. YOU HAVE THE PICTURE AND NOW YOU HAVE THE DREAM OF RUNNING THROUGH THE DARK JUNGLE HEARING THE TREES WHINE AND SING WAR SONGS OUT OF STANDARD TIME WITH THE PARADE-LINE. THE IMPACT SITE OF BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA TO THE LEFT RIBS SETTLES AND BRUISES INTO THE SHAPE OF A SKULL AND HERES THE CROSSROADS: IF IT IS A WARNING OR A WINK FROM FALLEN BLOOD. LEARNING TO FALL RIGHT, STEPPING IN FRONT OR FALLING TO THE FLOOR, SETTING TRAPS AND GUARDING WATCHING, WAITING FOR THE BLOOD TO MOVE OXIDIZING SKYWARD AND BROKEN, VERSUS GETTING OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN AND REMINDING YOURSELF OF BLACK SILHOUETTES STANDING SKYWARD WITH ARMS RAISED OVER RAGING FIRES.

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