shit and failure

these are the lyrics to our new EP if you're interested. the songs are in the correct order.


dreamt a little dream of you

last night i dreamt that if i ran hard enough and jumped high enough that i could just fly away to a place where i could live out a life less cliche.

i've got a plan to convey who i'm trying to portray: elliott, jeff, matthew, chris, stephen, emily, charlyn, and wes - and it's cos we wanted to know the exact same thing: what does it take to finally reach that brass ring?

{my bruised ankles (ego) and my broken feet (dreams) and my heart pounding in the wet city streets. a lack of blood in my extremities from cycling through these false identities.} - scattered thoughts on the brink of sleep only made worse by the songs on repeat.

"mr. sandman, bring me a dream"... make me a person that i have never been by bringing me peace with the sand in your hands that slips through your fingers and lingers when it lands near my nose. nobody knows (nobody knows, nobody knows...) who i want or who i'd haunt.



desperate decline

there's a line in my head and it's been there all week, it goes "i'm still wanting my face on your cheek"... it could have been my fault, but in time you'll see that i believed in love... it didn't believe in me.

it was a world that couldn't work, it was a world that wouldn't hurt, it was a world i couldn't find cos it was only in my mind. and while i sat and listened to ben, you went on and fell in love again. there was a time... if i could just remember when - i thought i'd found our way into cat heaven. it's where exit 86 led to a house of bricks. of summer scented letters and "first day that you met her"s. of sunburned cheeks and the mountains for weeks.

here's to the love i'll never find and to all the crashing bores. you may never be mine, but i will always be yours.

still... i dream your shadow moves across the floor by the light in the hall that slips under my door. but you still go back to your separate bed and i'm left alone in my desperate head.



the prisoner

is it really better to be lost than found? just to keep on writing words to a
hopeless sound? just to make myself feel worse every time you come around? just
to tear my fucking throat up and continue staring at the ground?

i keep on asking "why me?", when i really should be asking "why not me?".

please, please will you tell me all of your dreams cos i'm desperately in need of
something to steal; all the mountains and hills, all the rivers and streams... something tangible for me to feel.

mistakes that i keep repeating.
heartaches... i just keep repeating.

these four letters made a prisoner out of me: H-A-T-E, but these four letters will be the keys to set me free: L-O-V-E.

...another part of my story unfurled.

there is no justice in this world.



frowning fortune

how many more lines until my pen runs dry? how many more sighs until my lungs will fucking die? if i were more verbose would i matter to you? if i won you over, would i get back the life i "knew"? i feel ugly now just like i felt ugly then, i might have even felt love, but i can't remember when. february through august of two thousand and four? god, it's hard to think when your heart is on the floor. thoughts/nightmares that call for constant defeating makes it harder to feel like death's worth cheating. "living in thralls: heart is bleeding, all help needing"... without love to fill the void i just keep on eating.



T.S.B.T.E.H.A.M.

a nose that's full of snot v. a voice that's shot. a life of "have-not" v. "have-fucking-not". a single room, no food, and heart full of strife v. a house, a car, and a lovely wife. would i get that for leaving the wandering life? i'll probably end it with a knife. - this is an invitation to a pity party, but before you R.S.V.P., please take an inventory of the worst things you've done to me.

a dissection of myself before it's done by anybody else:
1. my wallet's always a void from never being employed
2. to remove a sullen mood i cope with plates of food
3. my front of being chaste is a total waste because by own admission i really only do it to avoid suspicion.

...god, here comes those dreaded lines - i guess i'll make them fast. "i was too far gone/i couldn't last."

if pen is truly mightier than the sword. well then, i feel i've been ignored. you won't read these words. you won't see this band. now i only feel disgust and the X on the back of my hand.



love's labor

sitting with my head on a windowpane feeling like nothing will ever be good again. that nothing will ever be as "good" as it "was". i've heard "it gets better", but i know it never does.

how can i believe what's romanticized in books when i've really known is love based on looks? should i just leave "well enough" alone and find someone else for my heart to call home?

sometimes i like to think that you think of me, there's been countless times i've left this letter where i'd knew that you would see.

i'm probably giving myself too much credit...

i know you've seen the letter, but i doubt you even read it.

i've suffered below (my heart), and i've suffered above (my head). i've suffered for show (my art), and i've suffered for a love that just wouldn't grow - i felt it depart. it wasn't apropos, it tore my life apart. my heart, my head, my art... all dead.

i wish that i could just forget:
all the fucks that i regret.
waking up in a cold sweat.
the weight of unpaid debt.

i've walked through the rains, lived the aches and pains, but the feeling never wanes that
life is losses, never gains.



credit where credit is due to: jeff mangum, william shakespeare, chris conley, wes eisold, morrissey, pat ballard/the chordettes, blake schwarzenbach, and dominic mallary.

death, heartbreak, and the loss of happiness.

i can't decide, i don't know if it's worse to live or die.

it isn't the first time but i really wish it was the last time.

you've got allure i can't deny.

i live my life like the coward in a monster/disaster movie. i just keep thinking to myself "wait it out, it'll all blow over and then things will be better." then when i finally re-emerge from where i've been holed up, nothing has changed except that i didn't get the girl (again), a lanky fucker with a beard did (always).

at least it's pretty outside.

a lot of stuff has happened. i've went on tour, it was great. i love positive noise and everyone in it. beautiful souls. the west coast is really hot. there's many beautiful girls in delaware and in doylestown, pa (who left before we played, i might add (one of them was wearing gladiator sandals and i swooned.)). philadelphia is full of foliage and is near jungle status, which blew my mind. mike fits in our band well and turned out to be pretty incredible. marc eats a lot more than most people. we didn't shower for four or five days at one point which wouldn't really be that big of a deal, but we were consistently drenched with sweat because of the heat in the van. we definitely used gold-bond powder on our private parts to maintain at least a level of freshness. ryan became drunk on his 21st birthday and puked everywhere. no one really liked us at any show where there were modern hardcore bands.

fall is the time when i am the loneliest.

i don't dare to touch your hand, i don't dare to think of you in a physical way, and i don't know how you smell. you are the cover of my magazine. you're my fashion tip, a living museum. i'd pay to visit you on rainy sundays, and maybe tell you all about it... someday.



she's the only one for me.

alec and cassy came here from pensacola for a week and half and it all around ruled. we went to chicago for a comic book convention and saw everything in life that i love (sans music, but maybe a little music). i got a batman tumbler, a batman shirt, a green lantern shirt, a green lantern ring, and a black lantern ring. i also received a free hellblazer graphic novel from the new vertigo crime imprint, and it's a paperback of a book that's supposed to be a hardcover, and it isn't supposed to be out yet. all in all, it ruled. alec set out to show mark millar his old man logan tattoo and get it autographed and then get the autograph tattooed and it worked out. mark millar was stoked and also showed the audience 25 minutes of the new "kick-ass" movie. i also met tony moore who illustrated the first few issues of "the walking dead" and he autographed an incredible sticker which i think is a pseudo self-portrait (him as a zombie).

i wish i lived near them (alec and cassy). he's a pretty lucky dude, as she is a nearly perfect girlfriend. she went with us to what is essentially a nerd convention and didn't complain at all, and she bought him a variant cover of the new ultimate avengers with red skull on the cover. in this universe he is cap's illegitimate son, whaaaa? we also all like basically the same music and movies (although cassy doesn't have a taste for mindless action movies ala the new G.I. joe - which ruled, btw).

we played a show on tuesday with former thieves, wholehearted, and dire wolf. former thieves is probably the best band in the midwest and it was probably one of my favorite sets i've seen since comadre in june. wholehearted was a whole lot better than the time i saw them a year ago or whatever, too. we have a new drummer cos alex decided to flake the last minute for the tour. his name is mike, and he is actually AWESOME. weird when you find a diamond in the rough. he's also a nice dude.

i saw a picture of myself from the other night and i looked fucking hideous and like everything i don't want to look like. don't try to talk me out of this.

we're going on tour tomorrow for like a week, so it's really more of a fling. i think we get to play at least one show with POSITIVE NOISE, which rules cos i love casey and sock. beautiful babes.

and as the summers ending the cold air will put your hard heart away.

if i run hard enough and if i jump high enough i think i can fly away to a place where i could live out a life less cliché... i'm just trying to convey who i wish to portray.

elliott, jeff, matthew, and chris.
stephen, emily, charlyn, and wes.

we wanted to know the exact same thing - what does it take to finally reach that brass ring?

{my bruised ankles (ego) and broken feet (dreams), heart pounding in the wet city street. there's no blood left in my extremities, from constant cycling through these false identities} - scattered thoughts on the brink of sleep that are only made worse by the songs on repeat.

but "mr. sandman, bring me a dream...", make me a person that i've never been. bring me peace with the sand in your hand that slips through my fingers and then lingers when it lands on my toes and nobody knows (nobody knows...) who i want or who i'd haunt.

it's hard when nothing seems good enough. i try to be a thoughtful and open-minded friend, but i suppose i'm just a bum out and somehow "not fun enough". it's hard for me to put myself out there and be a total goofball with little to no inhibitions. it feels like it's always "someone else over me". pity party, i know. it just makes me want to sit in a room that i don't actually have and watch tv and listen to the bands that gave me comfort when i was 18 and just waste away. i wish i didn't worry what other people thought of me. i wish that i felt like if i wasn't around, people would care.

i miss you, you don't miss me.