Dirty, Broke, Beautiful, Free by selfish-charity, literature
Literature
Dirty, Broke, Beautiful, Free
Standing on the side of the I-65,
with a sign in my hand that says, "Will Sing For A Ride."
Looking for anyone to get me away.
It's now or never, and I don't want to stay.
I've tried my whole life to make it out of this town,
but when I stood up, I was always knocked down.
"No one ever leaves." Until now, that was true,
but I have to make it out if it's all I ever do.
I don't know what lies ahead, but I know what I left behind,
and I'm never going back there if it means I have to die.
I don't know, but I've been told,
"True punk rock can't ever be sold."
So I'll strum these chords, and shout these lines,
"I'm still dirt poor, and
Bottle of Melancholy by selfish-charity, literature
Literature
Bottle of Melancholy
Thumb to the sun,
through the wind and rain,
Drink, Walk, Run,
Through my aches and pains.
A thousand miles behind me
A million left to go.
Always searching for something
A place to call my own.
I've always had a house,
But I've never had a home.
I've always had my friends,
But I've always been alone.
I try to use my guitar
to help me pay for my meal.
but the price is too much
so I just have to steal.
The Jim Beam in my hand
helps my body feel numb
but I can hardly stand
the worthless bum I've become.
I try and stay high
to keep my ghosts at bay
Makes me feel so alive,
but it never does stay.
I left my problems in my p
She Saw Me See Her See Me by selfish-charity, literature
Literature
She Saw Me See Her See Me
You never really see
that there is nothing to see
until you try to stop and see
what there is to be seen
but you see what you believed
was so worth your seeing
was actually just nothing, multiplied by 17
and then you start to see
that you must find something worth seeing
before you see yourself becoming
what was never worth your being
and then you'll find yourself creating
shitty songs like these.
I touch my pen to the paper in hand,
but I only ever write a point.
Maybe all the good songs are already written
by someone I'll never know
but even so, I persist in my attempts
and try to write another line.
Even if I manage one out, it won't be good enough
so I'll scratch it out
and start back over
with just another point on the page.
With no where else to turn, I resort to old addictions.
I've always told myself I'd never be here again,
But here I am, two shots later, and I'm barely numb.
I know that I should stop, but I don't want to feel.
What's wrong with me? Is any of this even real?
I lash out at the people closest to me.
I push everyone away until I'm completely alone.
And in this moment when I am utterly solitary,
I also feel happy; accomplished in a twisted way.
Bitter and spiteful is all that I've become.
I've turned into something I never wanted to be.
Reality slips away when you are consumed by yourself.
When I stop and think, all at once I realize..
I'm just as bad as the people who hurt me.
I pity the rich who will never know,
who exactly their true friends are.
I pity the poor who will never see,
that it's plenty green in their yard.
I pity the heroic with courage for ten,
given tasks they never asked for.
I pity the cowards who run from threat,
never finding their true color.
I pity the smart with minds of gold,
bequeathed with high expectations.
I pity the slow with minds of rock,
getting no credit for their creations.
I pity the strong with backs made of steel,
who work like dogs for their needs.
I pity the weak with bodies to match,
stuck sorting flowers from the weeds.
I pity the old who are almost gone,
w
I pity the rich who will never know,
who exactly their true friends are.
I pity the poor who will never see,
that it's plenty green in their yard.
I pity the heroic with courage for ten,
given tasks they never asked for.
I pity the cowards who run from threat,
never finding their true color.
I pity the smart with minds of gold,
bequeathed with high expectations.
I pity the slow with minds of rock,
getting no credit for their creations.
I pity the strong with backs made of steel,
who work like dogs for their needs.
I pity the weak with bodies to match,
stuck sorting flowers from the weeds.
I pity the old who are almost gone,
w
I lash out at the people closest to me.
I push everyone away until I'm completely alone.
And in this moment when I am utterly solitary,
I also feel happy; accomplished in a twisted way.
Bitter and spiteful is all that I've become.
I've turned into something I never wanted to be.
Reality slips away when you are consumed by yourself.
When I stop and think, all at once I realize..
I'm just as bad as the people who hurt me.
With no where else to turn, I resort to old addictions.
I've always told myself I'd never be here again,
But here I am, two shots later, and I'm barely numb.
I know that I should stop, but I don't want to feel.
What's wrong with me? Is any of this even real?
I touch my pen to the paper in hand,
but I only ever write a point.
Maybe all the good songs are already written
by someone I'll never know
but even so, I persist in my attempts
and try to write another line.
Even if I manage one out, it won't be good enough
so I'll scratch it out
and start back over
with just another point on the page.
She Saw Me See Her See Me by selfish-charity, literature
Literature
She Saw Me See Her See Me
You never really see
that there is nothing to see
until you try to stop and see
what there is to be seen
but you see what you believed
was so worth your seeing
was actually just nothing, multiplied by 17
and then you start to see
that you must find something worth seeing
before you see yourself becoming
what was never worth your being
and then you'll find yourself creating
shitty songs like these.