The cold spider prayed and bled

29 January 2019, 12:39 am; So there are 2 people I follow who seem to do a regular thing of 1 day a week is dedicated to sharing a song. The guy who has terrible timing does Music Monday, and Robyn who rocks around the clock does Tunes for Tuesday.

Err… It’s Tuesday now. And I’m… stuck in the threshold between. HAHAHA. OMFG I’m stuck in the middle again. But regardless of that, I’d be sharing songs all the friggen time. ALL THE TIME. THERE IS A SONG FOR EVERY OCCASION, and… my moods flip out pretty regularly and… music helps me to escape into it, or to wash over me completely. And then… I can pretend a whole bunch of stuff.

I won’t clarify if I’m playing a game with all of you, or if I’m being honest with my fucking OH MY FRIKKEN GEHRD! WHAT IS SHE ROCKING ON HER SPROCKET? It’s all the trepanning, you see. I can’t seem to find the right spot to drill, test and then spack fill it. Good thing I’m totally undead otherwise there’d be a lot of blood to clean up. Sheesh!

That’s why I have to stay ice ice cold baby, vanilla flavoured Oak milk.


I’m feeling crossed / I take it inside / Burn up the pain / My thoughts are strange / Just like the things / I used to love / Just like the tree that fell / I heard it / If art is still inside / I feel it

I want to bleed / Show the world all that I have inside / I want to scream / Let the blood flow that keeps me alive

Take all these strings / They call my veins / Wrap them around / Every fucking thing

Presence of people / Not for me / Well I must remain in tune / Forever / My love is music / I will marry melody

Won’t you let me take you / For a ride / You can stop the world / Try to change my mind / Won’t you let me show you / How it feels / You can stop the world / But you won’t change me

I need music / I need music / I need music to set me free / To let me bleed


I shared on Rick‘s page this very truth: everything we write and everything we read are lies. Everything is a lie. WHY? Because once you try to process it, it is no longer pure. It becomes a memory or perception tainted with your own preconceived notions of whatever you think you already know.  Language was born out of a desire to connect and to communicate with others, so we didn’t feel so alone. And in that communication, we corrupt each other, self propagate our own version of whatever guano is sacred or just literal shit.

Everything is the way that is it, and once we try to make sense of it, we corrupt that very essence we were trying to dream… And thus it is doomed from the beginning. Best to be an ignorant fool, than an enlightened curse.

We think we are so important or significant, we force ourselves out on to the world… Building these fake facades, these pretend personas, so that way we can escape the monotony and despair of existing in the real world that is actually all around us. We then forget to pay attention to the people who share our homes, or our beds, or our hearts… We shut them out so we can play all crash hot and cute and playful and important on the internet.

Because we feel that our lives are lacking. As if there is some damned hole that just needs to be filled in our hearts. AND NO, DO NOT TELL ME TO FIND GOD. I found god. It’s just that… we have a pretty rocky and tumultuous relationship. I guess that’s the thing with passion as strong as ours – it is something you can feel inside of you, and you think you can see it painted across the stars, you think you can see it in every living thing…

But that is an illusion.

Or it might not be.

For who knows. In times of war, the winners get to write the history. The defeated get their memories erased from the records of history. This is the way of the wars of this world, it has been for as long as I have remembered it so. The book burnings, the desecration and destruction of libraries and museums, halls of records… The only hall of record I have left is in the metaphysical realm.

For there was none as skilled in chaos as I was, he was (and is) the lord of all order. Fire or atmosphere, or sublimated in the water underneath mountains. Hidden away so I didn’t explode and go all Vesuvius again… Mount Helen… I hope I don’t set that bitch off too. I hope this all settles back down again and then I can say it wasn’t me. Unless it happens anyway and then… hey, let’s be real. I’m nobody’s god or goddess. Except my own.

And I’m up on my pedestal again. Or on some cross. Just end it and be done with it then. My chest feels like it’s being ripped out anyway.

1:18am. Pfft.

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Muse of epic poetry. Mother Metatron. Contemporary teacher of humanity and art.