tmblue's Journal

25 October
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  • tmblue@livejournal.com
My life in lyrics.


I have learned so very little when these bones are old and brittle. I wait to talk when I should listen and cloud mistakes with false revisions...

And you can't even begin to know how many times I've told myself 'I told you so.' And you can't even begin to believe; so many bridges engulfed in flames behind me.


Well, the booze in my blood runs fast and loud, and my brain shuts down to my mouth, say whatever I think. I say it at him. And when the dam bursts open and you're drown out, boy, better go outside, sit in your boat and wait 'til you get washed away...

And as the body succumbs and my mouth goes numb, I limp out to the sound of the breaking of broken toes, a vandal spoke. And in the stark and sobering dry sunlight, I will blink my eyes and hope the blink can erase all the shit that I said and did.

Hold onto your thumbs. Tighten your eyelids. Lock up your ears, my dear; I'm verbal when I am loaded. Duck under that desk. Cover your neck. Thicken your skin as I begin to shoot myself in the foot again.

And if I shoot at you, you should shoot at me too, and we can drown in pools of the thick dark words we knew. And as my face turns white, I apologize. I am sorry. It's not your fault; it's mine.


A cripple walks amongst you, all you tired human beings. He's got all the things a cripple has not, two working arms and legs. And vital parts fall from his system and dissolve in Scottish rain. Vitally he doesn't miss them; he's too f#cked up to care...

Well, I crippled your heart a hundred times and still can't work out why. You see, I've got this disease that I can't shake, and I'm just rattling through life. Well, this is how we do things now. Yeah, this is how the modern stay scared. So, I cut out all the good stuff. Yeah, I cut off my foot to spite my leg.

Oh, is that you in front of me, coming back for even more of exactly the same? Well, you must be a masochist to love a modern leper on his last leg, on his last leg.

Well, I am ill, but I'm not dead, and I don't know which of those I prefer, because that limb which I have lost, it was the only thing holding me up, holding me up.

Well, I'm lying on the ground, and you're walking through the only door. Well, I have lost my eyesight like I said I would, but I still know that that is you in front of me, and you are back for even more of exactly the same. Oh, are you a masochist? You love a modern leper on his last leg. You're not ill, and I'm not dead. Doesn't that make us the perfect pair? You should sit with me and start again. You can tell me all about what you did today, what you did today.


I'm working on my backwards walk, walking with no shoes or socks, and the time rewinds to the end of May - I wish we'd never met, then met today.

I'm working on my faults and cracks, filling in the blanks and gaps, and when I write them out they don't make sense - I need you to pencil in the rest.

I'm working on drawing a straight line, and I'll draw until I get one right. It's bold and dark, girl, can't you see? I've done drawn a line between you and me.

I'm working on erasing you; I just don't have the proper tools. I get hammered, forget that you exist. There's no way I'm forgetting this.

I'm working hard on walking out, but my shoes keep sticking to the ground. My clothes won't let me close the door, cause my trousers seem to love your floor.

I've been working on my backwards walk. There's nowhere else for me to go, except back to you just one last time. Say yes before I change my mind...

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