Thursday, 02 June 2011
And don't try to tell me it isn't because I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it is. I will call anything inspiration and the drivel I spit up afterward poetic -- if you let me. Don't let me. I'm just a narcissistic little bitch with grandly deluded ideas inside her head -- too damn full of myself to see past my reflection. My ego is Narcissus -- it glanced at it's reflection in the mirror and hasn't been able to look away since. But my ego was only born after my self-esteem died (or rather, was murdered; thank you mother -- I have to blame you, there's no one else to take the blame; my ego won't accept it and neither will I). Just because I do insignificantly insane better than you doesn't make me a decent poet, let alone a literary god (as I would so like to delude myself into believing I am). I have my grand delusions, though they aren't as grand and deluded as some, they're still enough to keep this little island to herself -- singing and dancing to and for gods that have never and will never exist; myself especially.
[bear in mind this is four days after my caffeine binge that lasted about a week and a half. would you expect any less from a heroine addict? Then expect nothing less from me.]
inspired by x_conspiracyy
We’re all just islands.
We try so hard to be so much more,
but we’re all just insignificant,
islands unto ourselves—
you will never know me,
and I will never know you;
we can never be more than what we are:
islands drifting apart at sea.
Insignificant, unimportant, inane islands
lost at sea, drifting from no place to nowhere;
king and queen of our own little godforsaken spit of land,
singing and dancing to the tunes of nostalgia
insignificant, insane little islands,
that’s all we are.
With nothing but death between us.