I Almost Wrote A Song About You Today, But I Tore It All Up And I Threw It Away - Sequal to The Hand Behind This Pen..., chapter 1
"Fuck. I can't do this. I really can't."
I throw the scraps of paper with odd bits of parts of one song on them on the floor, and then sigh.
I seriously cannot do this. What do they fucking want from me? To write a god-damn fucking novel about her? Well, fuck them. Do it their-fucking-selves
But, as I think that, I know I will end up doing exactly that, write multiple songs about her. I will write many many songs, poems, almost novels, about her. Her story, or what we assume her story was, her reasons, her train of thoughts, the way she thought. But, I will and won't ever know. Hell, I don't want to know, to understand her. It would be exciting, wonderful to know what goes on in her head, so I write down what I think actually went on inside her mind.
She, she screams in silence,
A sullen riot penetrating through her mind.
Waiting, for a sign,
To smash the silence with a brick of self control.
I'm on a roll, Billie Joe.
Are you locked up in a world
That's been planned out for you?
Are you feeling like a social tool without a use?
Scream at me until my ears bleed,
I'm taking heed just for you.
She, she's figured out,
All her doubts were someone else point of view.
Waking up this time,
To smash the silence with a brick of self control
Are you locked up in a world
That's been planned out for you?
Are you feeling like a social tool without a use?
Scream at me until my ears bleed,
I'm taking heed just for you.
And, right then, I scream, as loud as I can.
"So I guess this is all going to your head?" Al Sobranate drawls, leaning against the door frame, appearing by 'magic'.
"Fuck off, John."
"John? Now, why do I deserve that? What did I do to you this time?"
"It is NOT all 'going to my head' so just fuck off! Got that?"
"Well, I can see when I'm not wanted...so, goodbye"
"You're never wanted!" I holler at his retreating backside.
"Damn it, Billie! What the fuck crawled up your ass and died?"
"Fuck OF-F," I sing-song back at him.
He didn't even meet her, he didn't ever touch her, talk to her, kiss her. He doesn't know what's going on...
God, I'm obsessed. Oh well, can't change that. And at that thought I chuckle out loud, inwardly smirking at my craziness.
Hmmmm...
I think, suddenly becoming sober.
It would have been nice, it would have been nice to maybe sit down and talk to her, converse in an appropriate matter. As I know, we didn't get off on the right foot... .i was in a sulky mood, back then... .I could maybe have anticipated her getting hit...if I was nicer...maybe...
It would have...could have, maybe have...what's the difference?
I sigh, reliving every memory that has passed by my face, not even earning a glance from me. My eyes flicker, and rest on the calendar, as if drawn to the date by a magnet.
It's September 15th...my dad...blue...Adie...
I sigh, and then grab Blue. My fingers automatically fly to the neck of him, while another hand digs through my pockets; searching for my never found black pick, Mr. Fishy. I guess Al was right; I am a total screw up. I messed up with Adie, and then, I wasn't nice, or 'didn't try', as Mike so delightfully puts it, to that girl, Abi, that he adopted. Well, if that's how he feels, then whatever floats his boat, but I'm not boarding...
I throw the scraps of paper with odd bits of parts of one song on them on the floor, and then sigh.
I seriously cannot do this. What do they fucking want from me? To write a god-damn fucking novel about her? Well, fuck them. Do it their-fucking-selves
But, as I think that, I know I will end up doing exactly that, write multiple songs about her. I will write many many songs, poems, almost novels, about her. Her story, or what we assume her story was, her reasons, her train of thoughts, the way she thought. But, I will and won't ever know. Hell, I don't want to know, to understand her. It would be exciting, wonderful to know what goes on in her head, so I write down what I think actually went on inside her mind.
She, she screams in silence,
A sullen riot penetrating through her mind.
Waiting, for a sign,
To smash the silence with a brick of self control.
I'm on a roll, Billie Joe.
Are you locked up in a world
That's been planned out for you?
Are you feeling like a social tool without a use?
Scream at me until my ears bleed,
I'm taking heed just for you.
She, she's figured out,
All her doubts were someone else point of view.
Waking up this time,
To smash the silence with a brick of self control
Are you locked up in a world
That's been planned out for you?
Are you feeling like a social tool without a use?
Scream at me until my ears bleed,
I'm taking heed just for you.
And, right then, I scream, as loud as I can.
"So I guess this is all going to your head?" Al Sobranate drawls, leaning against the door frame, appearing by 'magic'.
"Fuck off, John."
"John? Now, why do I deserve that? What did I do to you this time?"
"It is NOT all 'going to my head' so just fuck off! Got that?"
"Well, I can see when I'm not wanted...so, goodbye"
"You're never wanted!" I holler at his retreating backside.
"Damn it, Billie! What the fuck crawled up your ass and died?"
"Fuck OF-F," I sing-song back at him.
He didn't even meet her, he didn't ever touch her, talk to her, kiss her. He doesn't know what's going on...
God, I'm obsessed. Oh well, can't change that. And at that thought I chuckle out loud, inwardly smirking at my craziness.
Hmmmm...
I think, suddenly becoming sober.
It would have been nice, it would have been nice to maybe sit down and talk to her, converse in an appropriate matter. As I know, we didn't get off on the right foot... .i was in a sulky mood, back then... .I could maybe have anticipated her getting hit...if I was nicer...maybe...
It would have...could have, maybe have...what's the difference?
I sigh, reliving every memory that has passed by my face, not even earning a glance from me. My eyes flicker, and rest on the calendar, as if drawn to the date by a magnet.
It's September 15th...my dad...blue...Adie...
I sigh, and then grab Blue. My fingers automatically fly to the neck of him, while another hand digs through my pockets; searching for my never found black pick, Mr. Fishy. I guess Al was right; I am a total screw up. I messed up with Adie, and then, I wasn't nice, or 'didn't try', as Mike so delightfully puts it, to that girl, Abi, that he adopted. Well, if that's how he feels, then whatever floats his boat, but I'm not boarding...
