You can love god or you can hate it. Either way, it won't be doing shit while you're alive but sending anonymous love letters in the form of sheer luck and you'll thank him, and then he won't say you're welcome. And then you might die and go to heaven.

BUt the rest of us who like to believe in things that are real, we'll just say fuck jesus and fuck a god who refuses to participate in this mess he created once he got bored one eternity long ago. Then we'll die, then we might go to hell, but if its anything like earth, it has to be because its based on elements we know from earth LULZ, then we'll get bored of getting burned, then we'll start creating civilizations, then we'll start creating ideas about how we got here and telling all the newcomers that its because some other deity loves us, and since you can't die again in hell, we'll just say our deity doesn't like you....to combat others who are saying their deity doesn't like us.

OR......










OR

We'll just fucking die.

The kind of concert I wanna be caught alive at

Bet if me and you had to breathe the same oxygen you'd choke
And foam comes out your headphones
And little men in black would scurry around and jump on dicks
Saying "Yo champ, keep the heads noddin'", I keep heads still



If I ever perform, I hope to god I attract an audience like that, people who would rather listen to the art than let it make them loose control of their body as if it were a drug. Or rather, I'd hope my music would be this rational and intellectual that it would be like a drug that allows the audience to explore their own consciousness and mind.

Basically what I've spent a year and a half searching for from the genre of Metal

A combonation of great lyrics that fit me like a poorly hummed suit and a group of instrumentalists that each use their instruments for all they're worth.

I bring you....

KEN MODE



The song is The Goat. Lyrics below:

Staring out over the vast melting; a new season is emerging.
None of it means anything to me without you. Days filled with nothingness; I hate this place and it consumes me every day.
Isn't this supposed to get easier? Something is just not right: do you feel it too?
I tried to make actions speak louder than words; but you weren't listening.
I truly believed that we were meant to be.
I can't believe the anger and hostility that you have been directing towards me; projections, assumptions; conclusive extremes. I'm hurting; and worse than I've ever hurt before. You've become so cold and uncaring.
Stop trying to make me hate you; for you'd never feel a more intense nor pure hatred for the rest of your life, and it's just not in me right now...
That searing pain tearing through my guts; this dull ache rippling through my head. You've turned me into a lame cliché. Thank you. I’m lying trembling on the floor.

Means more than words.

we live for a reason. that reason is no reason at all. we swallow our words and
hide our thoughts. everyday i regret everything coming out of my fucking mouth.
and I wish that I could shut the fuck up.

Real Freestyling and hip hop FTW

"They're keeping it calm you know, not screaming like many of these retards. He also does not sound drunk, like Lil Wayne."

Doseone is a winner. If anyone gets hip hop, its that dude.

Real Emo Lyrics FTW

Death, prolonged by a return to infancy, has more patience than I. Reborn into a caustic world with a name that inspires nothing, pulling meaning from pieces, consumed by repetition and outmaneuvered by my consciousness, my life isn't a trial; it's an eternity.

But I'm just a child. All I have is time.

And time will save me, through this machine.
Time will enslave me through this machine.
Its movement is mine.
And as we fall gracefully upward through the hourglass, no comforting melody invites us.
How long can a voyage take in a vacuum without time?



Pyramids - The Clockwork

Rule 1,

Write what you like; there is no other rule.- O Henry

Blah blah blah, said the idea to itself.

I was thinking a lot about the idea of the self, the self, or as its called from the inside, I. YOu know this strange little thing that everyone has, this odd tiny organ which the surgeons can't touch. One afternoon, I asked myself, what about that noise I always hear, that intolerable noise which comes from somewhere inside my head. ANd I realized that rather like a singer who accompanies his own singing with a piano or a guitar, I accompany my own life with a sort of endless tinkling or an endless noodling or murmuring - a sort of awful inner murmuring of reportage and opinions, idiotic arpeggios of self-approbation - "Yes, this is what I'm doing, this is what I'm doing, and this is the right thing to be doing now, because murmur, murmur, murmur, and this is right because murmur, murmur, murmur, and this is right becasue murmur, murmur, murmur - " I thought about all the isncere consideration which I gave to the future, to my plans, you know, and all the solemn concern I lavished each day on the events of my past - my "memories," as we call them, wiping away a few tears - and I wondered: Was this all tremendously valuable? Or was it perhaps just a bit unnecessary, when you consider the fact - rather often overlooked - that the past and the future don't actually exist? I sit around thinking about them from morning till night, but you know, where are they? Where are they? I mean, they're not here. And God knows they're certainly not anwere else, I would say. And so what is it supposed to mean to me that the trousers I'm wearing were worn "yesterday" by a man with my name, a man who did this, a man who did that, or that they'll be worn "tomorrow" by a man who is going to be doing something or other? It all means exactly nothing to me, because none of these people actually exist.- Wallace Shawn, THe Designated Mourner.

Its so easy to laugh, its so easy to hate, it takes strength to be kind over and over and over and over

-Morrissey

This world has some weird fucking values. The perception of strong is an individual who is often uncaring for other individuals who can triumph in any situation. If strength encompasses being that person who only takes care of themselves and is fine with living like that, I'm going to eke my days out in loneliness and weakness because I'm not going to be the half-assed participant in a bunch of group activities composed of people who will talk all the shit in the world about others once they're no longer around.

'Should you ask me if I'm happy, i'll answer that I am not.'

that is the beauty of prose. The words are as pure as a thought not hindered by presentation.

Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share.
—Mark Z. Danielewski (House of Leaves)