Cash is king?

I don`t belive in miracles ... (you sexy thing)

 

It`s 02.35..  Late evening, early morning.. who cares anyways teddybears. I find myself sitting here in company of some awesome mucis, a pretty OK glass of redwine, and then of course, we have all them people who`s sound asleep.

"you better run away.... you better run and hide... you better make your escape" - The lyrics are agressive tonight. No special reason, they just are, and I am down with that.  I am trying to be creative tonight. -trying. That probably means I am not in a great creative shape since I am sitting here blogging about ummm... wHatEvEr.                                                                                                                                                                                

Why I am awake. It`s logic, really. I got alot on my mind. Obviesly cuz I am doing this English style. And everyone who knows me , they know that when ever I talk to myself. (yes I fucking have conversations with myself (and they are great) ) I do it in English. Its just easier that way. ( I am not saying the gammar and the spellings are great though)

"So whatcha, whatcha, whatcha, whatca gonna do?"

Maybe it\s the alcohol. Maybe it`s this bloddy slow computer or maybe it`s just cuz I am human. But I feel like these lyrics are talking to me at this point. It`s like a big WOW-thing. the sad thing is though I can`t seeme to find any inspiration in them, or in nothing for all that matters. I helped the twins with a poem yesturday for school. (5th grade) and guess what??? -It was horseCRAP.

 

 

 

 

- T H E         E N D

 

 

 

Strikes again


Unfear dreams are teasing my soul.
Another iceland out of sight, but I
still can`t stop staring at the roads
I left behind.

I careface them all, with the biggest
smile you can imagine. Stuck in the
frightening future, tortured by the
overloaded past.

Always alone, by my own stubborn
choice, cost by the
route I was given to run.

Hiding for no one and
everybody. Touched only by the
cold fingers of my hunted
reality.

The questionmark are holding
my breath from one time to
another, but it gives me up
like the candles of love burned out
years ago ...

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