There's a man here in this bar, a face that everybody knows,
With his guitar made of sunlight, and he sings like the wind blows.
And when he sings, his words will bring,
Lovers home to hearth,
His voice will call, out to them all,
And forgive them the past.

Last night was weird.

Went to a birthday party for someone I didn't know, because Lucas was gonna be the only guy there, and he needed a wingman. Became reacquainted with my old friend Jackie D, and got quite impressively drunk. Eventually found myself kissing one of Sib's friends, a girl I've talked to maybe twice in my life? A pretty girl, and I seemed suddenly to think I had become some sort of alcoholic casanova.

Long story short, for once, I woke up this morning thinking "woah, what did I do last night?" and then didn't think "oh no!"

In fact, I was quite pleasantly surprised to find an attractive girl lying next to me.

What an odd night.

What am I doing? I don't do drunken romance... that's not me.

What kind of empty martyr bears a cross that's made of gold?
What loyal friend would leave you there, outside and in the cold?

I don't feel great. I'm tired and morose, and I want out of all these stupid committments; work, school, everything. I'm just sick of it. I'm no good to anyone, and all I really want is to sleep, and not have to get up for anyone.

Help me?

=(

Same shit, different day
But they call 'em urban soldiers,
Little kids with big revolvers,
Repping postcards on their shoulders

I like Lethal Bizzle. Is that bad?

Oh well.

shipwreck, trainwreck, plane crash, home (a villanelle)

When you are at the mercy of the sea,
And brittle waves are haunting in the night,
Cry, cursèd men and poor lost souls are we!

And in your heart a voice tells you to flee,
Surrender to the winds and end the fight,
When you are at the mercy of the sea.

On all horizons, fitful eyes may see,
The gath'ring storm and call the crews to flight,
"Thrice-cursèd men and poor lost souls are we!"

Your sails are torn, your hull has sprung a leak,
And the flag you raise is pure and deathly white
And you are at the mercy of the sea.

Your captain's dead, your pilot cannot see,
The storm is spent, the sun is rising bright,
Oh, cursèd men, abandoned souls were we.

He who survives may often pray to be,
Forgiven sins committed against the light.
But when you are at the mercy of the sea,
Oh, cursèd men and poor lost souls are we!

I am unimpressed.

We shall see.

Current Mood: frustrated
Current Music: November Coming Fire