my poor, overheated, gasping gray matter is running out of oxygen, much like a suicidal student sealed in an airtight garage with the engine running. dull thudding thudding thudding thud. drip. pour. splash. overflow.
back up quick now.
your eyes are full of hornets and black widow spiders, so please don’t get too close to me. one third social awkwardness mixed with two parts stone cold livin’ can do this to a person. typewriter teeth champing at the bit, foaming excess ink and clacking sounds. ding. time to change everything. change the mind and you change the body. change the body and you change the mind.
but this takes time, effort, and money. dinosaurs could live without money, so why can’t we?
“because we’re not dinosaurs, our brains are bigger than walnuts.”
ah, but size doesn’t matter when it’s splattered against the wall. then the mind doesn’t matter, because it’s kaput, pushing up daisies, gonezo. then the body doesn’t matter, because the mask that all the world sees is disintegrated, because everyone looks the same when they’ve been decapitated by a shot gun shell.
then nothing matters.
it’s not even funny how often i have to keep myself from diving at your throat. venom-filled teeth, straight for the jugular. misguided, misdirected rage and scathing irritation, boiling up while vultures circle overhead, occasionally dropping in to pick at the bones. (“the vultures ate my baby today.”)
whose bones, i wonder. or is it more of a what, an it, a thing, a sigh a frown a tear a sob a scream a whine a a a
a b c the end yet?
do you?
useless outlets for pitiful talents, it all gets torn to bits, anyway. you give yourself to people and they take and they take and they take and you’ll never get it back, so don’t give it away. the problem here is that no one really trusts anyone else. but maybe it’s better to trust no one, prepare for the worst. make sure to have a survival kit ready for this black fucking hole in my black fucking soul, assuming they even make them anymore. hunker down and wait it out, and hope that i don’t set it upon everything that ever existed.
i’m sorry that my insides are as sooty and repulsive as an uncleaned chimney, really, i am.
or maybe i’m not. it’s not like i’ve ever really tried to scrub everything out, anyway, because it’s all part of who i am.
(professional opinion says that’s about as unhealthy as living solely off shitty fast food and cocaine. fuck professional, let’s fight it out, motherfucker, are you ready for a fucking fight, motherfucker.)
i don’t give a fuck about how that makes you feel. maybe that’s just the bastard in me.
desperation overwhelming hopeless drowning darkness drifting nighttime nightmares not even close to sleeping i’m obsessed with not obsessing perfect storms and endless screaming open your eyes just open your fucking eyes fucker
i hate pretty much everything i do, and i learned that from you (only you no one else just you do you see the joke now do you do you). i guess i really am your bastard.
you fucking sucker.
and fantastic bastards by death spells came out in 2016??
at the time this was posted, death spells had performed 6 shows.
“fantastic bastards” wasn’t released to the general public until 2016 (when nothing above nothing below came out)
so I previously thought this blog was not a legitimate ft willz blog, but since they posted death spells lyrics in 2013 (from a song that didn’t come out until 2016) I’m starting to suspect this is a true ft willz blog.
there are a lot that look similar (like @f-t-willz-must-die is a fan account)
but the one i’m reblogging from is starting to look suspect.
I did find a 11/19/2013 performance but thats 2 months after the blog post. even at the other 5 shows, I doubt a fan was able to pick out the lyrics of a song they’ve heard only once live and paste them to their blog.
it’s not even funny how often i have to keep myself from diving at your throat. venom-filled teeth, straight for the jugular. misguided, misdirected rage and scathing irritation, boiling up while vultures circle overhead, occasionally dropping in to pick at the bones. (“the vultures ate my baby today.”)
whose bones, i wonder. or is it more of a what, an it, a thing, a sigh a frown a tear a sob a scream a whine a a a
a b c the end yet?
do you?
useless outlets for pitiful talents, it all gets torn to bits, anyway. you give yourself to people and they take and they take and they take and you’ll never get it back, so don’t give it away. the problem here is that no one really trusts anyone else. but maybe it’s better to trust no one, prepare for the worst. make sure to have a survival kit ready for this black fucking hole in my black fucking soul, assuming they even make them anymore. hunker down and wait it out, and hope that i don’t set it upon everything that ever existed.
i’m sorry that my insides are as sooty and repulsive as an uncleaned chimney, really, i am.
or maybe i’m not. it’s not like i’ve ever really tried to scrub everything out, anyway, because it’s all part of who i am.
(professional opinion says that’s about as unhealthy as living solely off shitty fast food and cocaine. fuck professional, let’s fight it out, motherfucker, are you ready for a fucking fight, motherfucker.)
i don’t give a fuck about how that makes you feel. maybe that’s just the bastard in me.
desperation overwhelming hopeless drowning darkness drifting nighttime nightmares not even close to sleeping i’m obsessed with not obsessing perfect storms and endless screaming open your eyes just open your fucking eyes fucker
i hate pretty much everything i do, and i learned that from you (only you no one else just you do you see the joke now do you do you). i guess i really am your bastard.
you fucking sucker.
