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wasteofpaint

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cello spelen, muziek luisteren, hardlopen, lezen, gitaarspelen, schrijven,

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and I want to scream out that it all is nonsense.
all your lives one track, can't you see it's pointless?
but then, my knees give under me.
my head feels weak and suddenly
it's clear to see that it's not them but me,
who has lost my self-identity.
as I hide behind these books I read,
while scribbling my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me,
with some ideal ideology
that no one can hope to achieve.
and I am never real; it is just a sketch of me.
and everything I made is trite and cheap
and a waste of paint, of tape, of time.

- Conor Oberst, Waste of paint


I keep drinking the ink from my pen and I'm balancing history books up on my head. it all boils down into one quotable phrase; if you love something, give it away.


and you don't look back. not for anything.

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19 minuten 14 seconden

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Gastenboek (2)

  • YannaiWrites

    Een warm welkom op Q! (:

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  • FCBayern

    Welkom op Quizlet!

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