cjpolodo

My life is my own I say beneath my breath As I watch you take your steps Towards another that I loathe But I don’t mind outside my mind Inside it I forbode it My superego overpowers every Second of resistance I could find I take first steps out towards Another street I’ve never gone See the streetlights sway, the figments blown And turn onto a different road And see you standing there A laugh across your face I mirror to avoid disgrace And step back into the store Take the mirror off the shelf And put my face up in the front So I can see someone I trust Enough to tell them what I felt Though even then I just pr

We don't know fashion But we're superstars With our graphic tees And our ragged jeans And we were never good at English But now we're novelists That make Gatsby pale And Moby move over And we don't know what we're doing And we don't care Because we're having fun And living life, loving life How can anything else compare? We're doing stuff, loving it We may be stupid but we're unaware Because We don't know drama But we're Broadway bound With our soliloquies (Whatever that means) And we could never sing a lick But now it ain't no thing Signing on with agents At the karaoke machines And we don't know what we're doing And

trying to be a poet at three in the morning when my head's foggy enough to have a strange grasp and my self-editor's asleep, giving the go ahead in mumbles

It's a small town, but I really wanna live in it Somehow, if there's a way I wanna bring you to a Small town. I wonder what you'll think of it And it's a small place, but it feels so natural to go your Own pace, in a town like this so come and see the Small place. Do you really wanna go? I'd give anything to go back home but you Even though there's so much more to roam, I knew In the end I'd wind up in circles go back where the stream trickles past I want to Move up to Maine I swear you'll love it there with the fields of trees and the cold air And you've always wanted a change of pace I swear Forget the city lights the days we both have sa

Brilliantly Pitiful I will go on record time and time again to say that Blue October is my favorite band of all-time. Their way with emotion exceeds what many groups can even try, and they have this knack for countering every deeply melodramatic song with an equally uplifting one (they call themselves "bipolar art rock" with reason). However, I will also go on record to say that Any Man In America is their worst album, bar none. Most of the songs are either boring as hell or plain unlistenable, made during the aftermath of his divorce and legal battle over his daughter. It resulted in some sappy songs ("The Feel Again (Stay)") that don't do

It's white paint was slightly chipped, showing the hardwood underneath keeping it all together. The lines from the unimpressive but passable paint job show up on it, complete with bumps where the paint gobbed up. I'm pretty sure squirrels got splinters when they ran up the wall, and hornets thought it was a little too easy to infest. Here, at 688 North French Street, was the house that I was going to move into. According to my mom at least. Personally, I had no intentions of going near that place. The setting is March of my sixth grade year. My mom, now finished with her degree in special education, found a job in Bangor, and as such decided

Flip the channel see what's buzzing Receptions fuzzy, turn it off let's move on Turn the phone on and rock out To an old favorite song The second verse's a curse press pause move on Go find something new What else's there to do? Checking facebook, read the cliffnotes of some others' friends lives Getting married, jobs and families Found their perfect wives Me, I'll watch the viral botching fails And laugh as all the hours fly by To three to four to five oh my I'm just chasing all the small highs I'll find something good tomorrow Try and find a better life I swear there's nothing better there Who cares for things beyond what

WARNING! The following material is a transcript from trying to listen to a cd written by a nine-year-old with an addiction to Bowling For Soup many moons ago. Please do not take the following content seriously, because... seriously, just look at the first verse, don't even TRY to tell me this is serious. You have been warned... If you wanna be a star Like i think you know you are Come on I'll be your guide To this endless fame supply You hate your boring home You hate your boring school You just feel like dipping Into a humongous pool I know what you're thinking now That you just don't want to drown Come on, that's crazy talk! It's just li

Writer's block... again. This always happens. Every time I sit down to write, squeezing out of my overloaded schedule of work and mandatory social interaction, my pen looks back at me, asking what it's supposed to be doing. "You're supposed to be the one with ideas around here, not me." Yeah? Well, you're a pen; you're not supposed to be able to talk. Normally, once I start to argue with my writing utensils, I decide it's a good time to take a walk. The fresh air never helps, but I need some separation from my pen until we can work things out. After all, throughout this bitter feud, we’ve been able to scrap together some gems. Today i

I miss the sunshine I miss the breeze I miss the planes Those loud fucking planes That ruin my sleep I miss walking on the street asking for a ride Getting a friendly stranger to stop by And somehow surviving the night