Helping It.

Yes, I cannot. I don't think anybody can. A post was dedicated to my trusty journey-written car-notepad. I want to wrench what was written thrice mostly everywhere I can lay my thoughts down. I do not know. I feel this constitution of emotions can no where be correct, so to speak. I will not use my favorite 'P' lettered word. IT has appeared too many times over the entire tight-expense of creativity for this blog. I will not, and of course I can't, not. I have been listening to two songs especially for the entire day, along this entire week. Bruno Mars', Just The Way You Are and Lady Gaga's Monster. With the both of these songs up in my head, it is almost impossible to rid unwanted thoughts. Hence the depressed state of wanting the impossible. I praise perfection singing his song, and demand attention singing her song. It is sad, truly. Because upon the playlist being on repeat, helpfully, I cannot assist myself in being saved from this wretched state. I can again, once more dwell into playful goth stories of murderous fairies but what's the point. The picture I no longer have to paint, for the gist would probably have been gotten far back at the start of this colored cup. My nature is not to be hidden on my blog, it's bare. I'm bare. Over all pages spread upon floors of experience, I lay nude. That serious. However, my pose is to be found difficult in understanding. Nude, I may be, but the intention to stay secure remains. So, words flow beneath layers of metaphors and personified appetite; my hunger for la mort and l'amour entwined expressively for the purpose of solitary confinements and, control. So I sing,

"You are amazing just the way you are, eating my heart. You are a wolf in disguise with brilliant demands of being stared in the eyes. I've seen you before; your hair, your nails, your laugh, you are amazing just the way you are; a monster!"