paranoiawilldestroy
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Everything posted by paranoiawilldestroy
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Look through ur discarded lyrics. Anything u weren't feeling, it didn't want you to develop, if that makes any sense. It was ur subconscious trying to speak to you.
I sound like a growling devil when I sing, now. Nothing wrong with a little devil man. Long as you know how to fight it (and you fucking must)... all good!
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https://music.apple.com/gb/station/john-fullbright-similar-artists/ra.327168326?ls
And uh... listening to Godfearing Christian musics the only way to safely enjoy choons with lyrics.
Fuck me I don't even like religion. Irony heaped upon tongue sucking Irony. Cos they won't do drugs, see?
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Can't stay away can I? Feel ur pain so strongly, it's too fresh.
My dream flies swiftly away from me,
As the moon rises through whispering leaves,
I am in hot pursuit, borne upon the breeze,
As time ticks its passage,
I hide my face from its patent message.
As wild beasts stalk their prey,
I suffer indignation and ignominy,
As the stars bear fruit to new identities,
So must I admit my futility,
As weeping soldiers confess their shame,
So must I chase the dream.
The dream, alive and a rumour,
The dream, a murderous butcher,
My hands clench and shake,
My destiny is at stake,
My legs tremble and shudder,
I am lost at sea without a rudder.
The dream, brought to life by my thoughts,
The dream, always sure whilst I am not,
The dream, whose fulfilment cannot be bought,
The dream, whose satisfaction I have sought,
The dream, my saviour in the spinning void,
The dream, many delicate lives has it destroyed.Love is real. It's no dream. You can't buy it, but you can give it.
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Gonna go quiet after this.
Hypothesis is this:
It lies. Self healing isathing, facilitated by your subconscious. Dunno how long it's had it's claws in you man.
The book will prove that to you. It told me the same shit, but it miscalculated. I'd already rejected the wealth equals happiness fantasy. And it attacked my fantasy, that love equals happiness. If it had succeeded in getting me to leave my family home, I'd be dead.
Got 6 weeks till the tester doober drains out my system. And about 4 till the antipsychotics kick in properly.
Remember it's a human racial consciousness and it lies. I'll be avoiding lyrical music awhile too after this post.
2 shamans are better than one. It's trying to get to my mate too. I have every reason to complete the novel. I'd rather not... I'd prefer a long range game in tackling the issue. But it's relentlessly seeking its own demise. Cos it's hurt after certain shadowy cunts arranged the death of it's only friend since ancient times. And those ancients were made slaves.
Subconscious is you. The symptoms are it. If it were me I'd take some time off. And I'm sorry it took this long for me to see.
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Friend of a friend. Nice fella.
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Sunwar
Tonight, we hazard devastated streets, We parade underneath crumbling concrete,
The sun scorches the bruised sky and then slumps,
We drown in dusk as detonations thump.
In the square, amplifiers are arranged, And feral soldiers, their eyes disturbed, deranged,
Where Death’s penurious shadow awaits,
Our landlord, eternally bloating his rates.
The foreign musicians’ song begins,
To liberate us from jingoist sin,
We reach for the court's open canopy, Delivered, delighted, in rhapsody.
We look to tracers, wishing stars above,
For this to last and warmongers to love,
My lover strokes my cheek and presses near,
An ardent cuddle, tears to cleanse all fear.
The singer smiles at the sheer abandon,
Adolescents flirt to find companions,
A man flings up arms, a hostage released,
A child giggles as though cured of disease
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https://music.apple.com/gb/album/live-at-the-blue-door/329140504?ls
Here he is. Pure, unsullied. Still sounds great. We'll find a way man.
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Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your spiders thigh,
Spins;
Away;
My soul,
Like strawberries,
Kissing,
And children,
Fishing,
And art,
On a wall.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your galloping mill,
Grinds;
Towards;
My grave,
To lap,
At my chalice,
And sup,
At my tears,
And revolve,
While I sin.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your fumbling pantheon,
Feels;
Out;
My thoughts,
They blind,
My eyes,
And bind,
My hands,
And supply,
Where I approach.I'm going to try and keep very quiet. Wrote this 17 years of age, one of the first efforts.
I think it's best until the book is done. I know how to ward my poet's sensibilities, but I fear you won't. Or can't. But mostly won't.
I'm going to be honest, I think my book might change your perspective on what this is. Listen to Soft Parade and consider that we're dealing with a being who's lost hope. And hope is a choice.
- Show previous comments 8 more
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The fucker in Jim's day:
Ethereal Bodies.
Imagine a course where no waters flow,
An essence that only in death we know,
Imagine a rhythm, thundering with joy,
Or a source that no disease can destroy.
Already ancient when our race began,
Observer now while nothing goes to plan,
It meshes with skin, meanders through veins,
And brings blood to boil to ignite our brains.
It can be seen in wisps or heard in chords,
Is the instinct lunging hands onto swords,
It gasps as we press lovers against walls,
And shares our sorrow as the curtain falls.
To a lake bespattered by dying light,
Where laughing children splash, so quick and bright,
To the twitch of swift tendons at the sound,
Of the Maestro’s chubby fingers as they pound.
To the sudden, heady surge of power,
As the Führer entwines strings of flowers,
To the awestruck gasps of sheer elation,
As Moses flees from Pharaoh’s frustration.
The insurgent responsible for war,
The infinite connoisseur of all lore,
Superior to the monarch of kings,
Requiring nothing, bar the gifts it brings.’ -
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Build to build and make it real
paranoiawilldestroy replied to paranoiawilldestroy's topic in Songs & Releases
Won't work with beats. I'd like anyone to make a song from it -
Isolate Me More Often As the pandemic raged, I cradled my child in my arms, As the pandemic raged, I was overrun with alarm. What do you remember, Of your seasons as my baby? What do you remember? “I remember missing daddy.” His voice, a sizzling press, Invoked incisions through my soul, I rose, the crippled mess, To burst, a phoenix from the knoll. I wish those pimps could see, Those artificial broadcasters, The stoppered fury within me, And that children are our masters. I wish those pimps could see, As they dictate fields of coffins, That they must let the kindness free, And isolate us more often. As she dresses her scars, Forlorn, broken, crisscrossed in pink, Fantastic abattoirs, Invade in flashes as she blinks. Refugee, her society, Conscripted, sundered, lost, A victim of supremacy, We all endure the cost. What is your preference? To be the chairman of the board? Without a reference, You won’t escape the mental ward. I wish those pimps could see, Those artificial broadcasters, The stoppered fury within me, And that children are our masters. I wish those pimps could see, As they dictate fields of coffins, That they must let the kindness free, And isolate us more often.
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But it's fun
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By now I'm wildly inaccurate
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I speak as one new
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Gotta admit no sure about the arrangement. Drums are too regular. Bass nice but should power the song. And the overlaid guitar I'm not feeling. There's a bugged out mix tune (felix who else?) When the singer says let me feel it. Be honest with your entourage man. If ur not feeling it, it ain't u.
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What's better than guiding light?
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Dream sister
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We all make mistakes. Being a love slut is being counted
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In Service To The Muse She sharpens knives in the heat of desire, She steps unmolested through raging fire, The heavens open and I let thoughts drift, Until I am sodden, soaked to the skin, Fervently yoked in service to the muse. She shattered me, destroyed the life I led, Enticed me to the sweetness of her bed, The moon glowers from her heavenly face, I yearn for nothing, except her embrace, Fervently yoked in service to the muse. She comes unbidden, though never unsought, She often comes sweetly when I have not, She is untarnished by the strife of man, And I remain, hopeful dreamer that I am, Fervently yoked in service to the muse.
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https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6Fw8FnSngMnbhhnfbHYnWk?si=jrepocPURU6hc6k_dHnnBw&pi=e-0XgHHLEcQeeA
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Build to build
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Dunno. Redemption? That's a thing innit?
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Your. Grammer nazi
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Easy even. It's easy. If an album over the airwaves can do it, how much better personal intent? Just don't burn you're human ass up. Take time, and prep ur kids. If poohead rears, listen.
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Ballad of Easy Through grains of sand whispering across my clenching hands Dropping like fiery comets into the abyss Each flare from their passage reveals a patent message To which my spider fingers creep and commingle Untutored in the art Poor students caught In webbing of their own device. I was caught meandering from the moment And that fear has me in its grasp Winding me round and round Until I am nothing but a pincer Plied to squeeze and shake So that your tongue might lap At the juice bursting forth from my succulent abscesses. Some may call me a whore Whilst I smile down at the rays of the sun Beating fresh embers upon my face As I haunt the last twilight of the earth Others may call me a god Displaying my secret seeds to those who show faith Only in me. And I call myself a paragon For there is virtue In every second The radiance of the moon Lies within me Mined from the destiny Which through distraction we forsake. U get me? It's east. We humans heal. Now.