She Said Thanks... But I'm Broken

But I'm Broken - (username) - Bad Religion -- "Broken"
Teenage Anthem - Everclear -- "Amphetamine"
Small Talk With Mister Moon - 8Stops7 -- "Esteem"
Sooner Or Later - Bliss 66: Trip To The 13th (whole album) - Bliss 66 -- "Sooner Or Later"
Everybody Slips And Falls - Jack Off Jill -- "Underjoyed"
Forget Everything And What It Means To Me - 8Stops7 -- "Not Alive"
There's A Secret In Your Laughter - Scarling -- "We Are The Music Makers"
Plastic Blue - The Birthday Massacre -- "Blue"
Heart Thief - Scarling -- "H/C"
Can't Let You Go - Matchbox Twenty -- "Can't Let You Go"
Your Lips Bleed Like A Cut - My Ruin -- "My Beautiful Flower"
Seek To Deceive, Your Introduction To Destruction - Otep -- "Confrontation"
All The Glitter Falls On Her - Cold -- "Back Home"
Reminding You To Breathe - Alkaline Trio -- "We've Had Enough"
Halloween Valentine - Scarling -- "Can't [Halloween Valentine]"
Fangs Ruin Any Cute Pout - Rasputina -- "Transylvania Concumbine"
Left Me Falling Behind - Scarling -- "Bummer"
Here Is Me On Tragedy - Eve 6 -- "Superhero Girl"
She Was Only Trying To Breathe - Cold -- "Sad Happy"
The Difference, In The Tired Spaces You Could Hear Her Name - Matchbox Twenty -- "The Difference"
With Her Comes A Hunger - Fuel -- "Hals Of The Son"
She's Looking Like A Dream - Leave's Eyes -- "Elegy"
Coin Operated Boy - The Dresden Dolls -- "Coin Operated Boy"
Blue Is A Spider - Switchblade Symphony -- "Color Gray"
Like Calendars Dying - Thursday -- "Jet Black New Year"
Golden Tears - Leave's Eyes -- "Froyas Theme"
The Angels Cried In Butterfly Red - Queen Adreena -- "The Butcher And The Butterfly"
Through A Whisper - The Wallflowers -- "From The Bottom Of My Heart"
Traces Of Old Pain - Sugarcoma -- "What Goes Around"
Heavy On The Memory - Matchbox Twenty -- "Angry"
Cold In The Sun - 3 Colours Red -- "Fit Boy Faint Girl"
Cut Myself On Your Lips - My Ruin -- "Let It Rain"
Lust Worthy, All That Glitters Is Just Black - Angelspit -- "Lust Worthy"
Everything Exists Between Black And White - 8Stops7 -- "Regression"
Set In Broken Glass, Silent But Screaming - A Change Of Pace -- "Every Second"
Cinnamon Sins - Darling Violetta -- "Say You Love Me"
Silence The Gray - 36 Crazyfists -- "Reviver"
Turn My Castles Blue - Third Eye Blind -- "Anything"
A Butterfly Soul - 3 Colours Red -- "Copper Girl"
Just Like A Fire She'll Leave You Helpless - Default -- "Comes And Goes"

Mini Buffyverse Photos: http://s858.photobucket.com/albums/ab148/brandireedevans/BuffyAngel

Facebook: http://facebook.com/brandibroken

OoOoO

She never wanted to be a ballerina. She just loved to twirl.

There is no real conclusion here. There wasn't really an introduction, just part of a story that was ripped from a book. I just happened to remember a page of it.

I'm indecisive about everything involving future plans.
I think I lost you somewhere inbetween the glare of the windshield while daydreaming again and the horns blasting from behind.
It takes me anywhere from one to three days on average to wash dishes. And it takes me even longer to put away clothes.
I write alot of random and interjecting thoughts on whatever I can find at the given time.
I find my biggest interests in the smallest and simplest things.
I wish that I could express and explain how I feel and how I am to the loving people in my life, but I can not and never have been able to.
I find only shame in admiration when showered upon me because my heart will always refuse to believe such things like that.
I believe, without any doubt in my mind and heart, that the people in my life are far too good for me.
I have bouts of depression when reflecting on what it would be like without when when they figure this out and go on with their lives without me.
I like to color on glow in the dark stars to lessen their glow.
I still have bottle caps from Jones' Soda duct taped in the most illegible manner on my old moniter at home as if the could be statements to live by or some fabulously defined moments.
I love it though. I love anything that has some completly random message on it to leave you to project or visualize it however you want.
"Step on the cracks."
What's that supposed to mean? Or more importantly, what does it mean to you?
Look around the room and find random objects to form a sentence in the order of which you discovered them. Then, insert the word "a."
I came to the conclusion: "Your name begins with a creative gateway."
Tell me all your thoughts, I'm dying to memorize your dreams.
Go:

Chains missing from the swingset. Tree's cut down by the road.
She hung herself with a childhood memory.

If I had wanted a tragic ending, I would just go sit in some old theatre with bad lighting.

My heart's always been in your hands. I hope the pieces cut you as it shattered.

Cherry red lips and a frail body fall lifelessly out of that costume dress.
This stiffening pain floods around her heart.
She'll go gather up the pretty roses whenever the curtain drops and all of the thorns will pierce into her skin.
She had painted up her sad excuse of a porcelain face while dreaming to become somebody else. And every night, on point, for a few short lived moments in time, she got to play as if she really was.
Up until that final applause is over and she comes to the realization that when this matinee is over.. she's got nothing else to live for.
It's opening night and she's backstage draining all hope from her wrists.

I threw my notebook at the stand and your half of a pack of cigarettes scrambled to the floor. They still don't know you've stopped, that you've given up.
I walk over and start picking them back up. And then I place them carefully back into the box. Each one of them have a name written onto the filter, each is another reason you had finally quit. I can see where your lips had touched them though, as you contemplating their very worth.

Maybe it wouldn't be so hard to live if you actually needed to exist.
She's laying lifeless and broken on the cold floor. Her hand gently placed on her pale cheek, a knife and shavings next to her. They point to three words angrily engraved into the floor that read "I Was Here."
Can you even begin to imagine her tears as they fell down her face? She was pleading with herself that she really does exist.
No one can blame her for feeling that way, as if she was invisible to the world.
Months will go by, maybe even years, and strangers will look down and ask the story behind these words.
No one will ever feel bold enough to remove them.
They'll be told that some girl in her early twenties died here. No one found her until her rent was past due.
Everyone always remembers a tragedy.
The details just can get mixed in with other ones.
Like another story about another girl in her twenties. She was found a year later a few weeks after it had taken place.
Her story will lose all it's meaning, just like her life had.
Have you ever thought about what it's like after you're gone?
I once had a thought that we all end up trapped in our own empty movie theater.
You slowly move down to the middle row and you inch your way to the middle seat and sit down. The lights will dim and the film reel will start to turn, though no one is anywhere in sight.
Images appear that seem familar and flicker like snap shots on the screen and you'll suddenly realize that it's your life. That you're watching all these moments you'd lived through.
The sounds picks up as tires screech to a stop. This was right before the impact of that car crash you were in.
Then everything starts slowing down.
The script is glimpses of your life you'd been trying to forget. You close your eyes to try and escape it so it plays in your mind.
You run to the film room and try pushing stop, but you know you can't stop the scenes from continuing on. It has to reach the final shot then roll the credits.
So now you're at the part where you start to write your words into the floor. You jump up to the stage and burst through the screen. You just want to escape what you know is coming next.
You then wake up with an imprint of your hand impressed on your cheek. You left it laying on there for too long. Startled, you pick up your knife and begin to carve "I'm Still Here."
Maybe it'd be easier to exist if you were trying harder to live.

Yesterday turns into today and tomorrow will be just as useless.

I found out they were all looking for some feeble explanation that would inevitably never come. Some desperate attempt to make everyone else feel inferior, but amidst it all, our documented life styles peeled away to truth. And we were all unrefined and mortified.
Where has all our audacity gone now? Running to the sinkholes, filling in the metaphoric cracks.

Stop passing notes and pay attention to the lesson.

It's a silent applause, a herotic gasp, the calming affect that overcomes you.

Suicide notes come in small packages with no return address written on them.

I watched as you packed back up your bags.. putting everything that's ever meant something to me into a dusty old suitcase, placed alongside other small departures then attached to zipper tags. And it's just another open airport. Just more luggage lines at the bottoms of orange plastic chairs, the same impatient individuals everywhere you look.
Everyone's holding tight onto their passports, all thinking of different places around the world. They think that somewhere else holds a future just for them, one worth enough to travel for.

You're a picture that they would just put behind a frame. You know. that type of lingering memory that we keep around, but hidden, so no one knows.
No one likes to recall a tragedy.
But.. what if, what if you had died, and now you're just trying to find out which way it is you need to go?
He had said there's no direction in life. That no matter what, whichever way you should choose to take, no one is gonna be ahead of you. So just keep walking.
You'll know when it's time to stop.

The street lights flicker. One more block to go. It's raining, but that's better than snow. God, almost there, just focus. Find a tune you like, and remember, and sing it. Never wear these new shoes again, you're freezing to death. Keep on walking, just a few more.
Shit! Heard something, who is that? You wish there were more light. You walk a little more quickly and try finding your keys.
Focus.
Guy on the other side of you is smoking. He doesn't make eye contact. Which is more than fine by you.
You're home, get inside. Throw the keys down on the stand, then take off your scarf and then your jacket. Shuffle your bag to the floor and kick it to the side along with your shoes. Turn the corner to a glowing and idle screen. Look lower to the ten meaningless messages, left by people who think they're interested in this casual form of communication. We both could do without. The cell phone's blinking now. How many calls where they don't even know you're name? Scroll down, but then there he is. You'd recieved your last phone call from him so long ago. You still haven't deleted it. Will you ever? You don't know. There's a comfort in those fading memories, even if it means nothing.
Peel off the clothes you have left on and fall flat into your bed.
The clock is always too fast. You used to wish you could trick your mind into thinking you could speed time along.
If you focus on a certain panel on the ceiling fan, you can watch it spin around, all the others will disappear. And not only will every other panel blend into one another and into the ceiling and walls, but the entire room you're surrounded in will soon drift away. Watch the spinning. It will suddenly slow back down, like a child on a merry go round, like your arms raised to the sky when you stand in the back of a truck in the crisp november air, trying to feel free.
You walk past a bench and want to just sit down, but you're on a mission here to get to a place you never wanted to be anyway.
The slight dew has made the leaves that have fallen off form patterns of amazing color on the sidewalks. Trash liters the same sidewalks and you can't help but think who was ignorant enough to have thrown it down without a second thought.
Betsy isn't on her porch today. She hasn't stopped you to say hello for weeks now. You need to send her a birthday card next month. You want to make her feel important. She knows the pain like you do, of feeling sometimes like you don't exist.
You wonder what it feels like to grow old, though you're not afraid of dying. You're always too worried on wether or not you're living correctly. Or at all.
Keep walking on.
Two feet tall. You kneel beside her, breathe onto the sliding glass doors to draw out a picture. It's you, a stick figure next to her.
Her face could save the world if all it needed was the sweetest smile or the most innocent look.
She runs quickly to you everytime you enter the room with those small arms wide open. And it's a gift, to feel so loved by innoncence, to breathe deeply and hold back tears of happiness when this child lays their head in your lap, grasps your fingers with their own tiny and gentle hands.
A diamond ring to prove their love. How can something that costs so much seem so cheap?
It's not the fact he lied, it's the fact he thought he had to. But maybe it will fade with time, just like ecstatic conversations after a few weeks have gone by.
There's salt and pepper shakers, both shaped like ducks. A classic telephone that allows you to turn the dial for each number. And victorian chairs that hold so much comfort.
He was like a butterly. one you just can't catch. You admired the way he flew around. You know you should have just enjoyed his company, but you wanted more. to hold him in your hands. You couldn't get over that kind of potential feeling.
So many packets of empty penny wraps. You made six dollars worth of wishes in the past day, or maybe, you was just making the same exact wish over and over again.
You drew the same line over and over again on copier paper you found under my bed.
A necklace with a simple charm, a pair of sandles. You never wear sandles. And you don't know why you find it so amazing, wondering why they made a charm like that. Does it mean something to who designed it? Maybe they'd had some moment with someone on the beach and their little inside joke had involed a simple pair of shoes like these and now she wears this charm around her neck. Maybe she thinks about that night. that moment, maybe she remembers that someone special. Maybe she closes her eyes and it's like she can see it all. She can smell the wet sand, feel the wind blowing, feel that intimate feeling again.
Maybe you really should stop thinking all together.
Sitting down in an old diner, one you haven't visted since earlier childhood, you wait for your drink. You rearrange the little packets of sugar. making them all face the same direction. There's a man three tables away who's hands constantly shake. You put a mint into your mouth, wanting to quickly spit it back out. It shattered into little bright white pieces onto the ground.
You drive past a park you spent many hours in. Mostly in unforgiving heat, with no source of liquid to quench your thirst as a kid. Then over the bridge, you quickly remember a story your aunt told you as a child once. It was graduation night, a boy had asked if he could sit with her, but she had declined. She had to go sit with her parents. That night she found out that he had gone to swim out in the river, that he had drown.
She kinda knows the pain that you know. That feeling of blaming yourself for anothers death. And it doesn't matter if you know it was or if you don't. She knows the feeling never fucking goes away.
But.. the street light is flickering again. Just a little bit more to go.
One day you'll show this town, maybe, just maybe you were meant for it.

Beside of her is the shelf that holds all the angels, and on the floor in front of her lies all their broken wings.

Time has spent it's entire existance running in a circle.. never coming to realize that this race has no end.

"Rock Is Dead."
How many times have you heard this? Do you wish you could have been there? Do you think maybe you could have saved it?

I am not a writer. I just think too much.

Fast Forward.
She's crying again. Her first gut instint which he time and time again told her to rely on has remained idle for some reason.
Rewind.
He's holding her hands, both of them are crying.
She pulled away and she crawled on her knees over to the empty corner. It was the farthest thing from him and she thought maybe it would have the strength to hold her up.
Pause.
This kid had been about to tell her how much he loved her, how much he could never live without her.
Play.
She's trying to make sense and describes the feelings she has inside and she refuses to believe anything this poor boy has ever and will ever say.

I'm not sure if something can be both, a blessing, and a curse. How would we run out of time?

A time bomb falls from the sky. It reads "You Gave Up."
Rain washed away the ink, so you found a pen and scribbled down "Not This Time."
You threw it into the wind and as it burst into flames. You walked through the smoke as if the dead had finally awaken.
Your phone's been diconncected again. But you hadn't noticed that it hadn't rang once.
Telemarketers don't even care you exist.
You'd been in the book for eight months.
Your piano is broken. You're who stole the keys. You had wanted to make a picture frame holding a happy family.
There's a lack of photographs so stick figured were drawn.
You go over to straighten it up but only find yourself staring.
The twenty one year old male still holding up that sign. It states "I'm All Alone."
Suddenly you feel a breeze from the open window. And in sails some ashes. All falling to the floor.
You stumble to collect the pieces to your new puzzle. And on this water stained and slightly burned sheet of paper.. you read "Not This Time."

If you had to put a price on your life what would it be?

Maybe I should have left my memory behind just in case you start to forget.

This is a paper cut. A fork in my road. My always collective chaos.
And you? You were my perfectly timed destruction.
I'd ache to hurt you.

So much for the saying that pictures are worth a thousand words whenever you can always alter the image.

Sitting on rooftops, having deep conversations. Street lights shine, they're bright up until second story windows, then they start to fade into a dim light backdrop, helping to set our moonlight setting. And with it gleaming off our faces, it's like we were born for the spotlight.

Maybe you're my tape.

I was sent a package that had a tag that read "This Side Up."
I flipped it upside down and shook it violently.

I searched for the fastest way to die today. And I got over six hundred thousand results and had only five minutes to sift through trying to find the least gruesome ending.
I've got a life like a slide show. Click. Click. Click.

Tell me everything you know about me. I'm afraid I forgot it all.

"You try to hard to die."

Maybe the story was meant to end abrupt. Just like everything else.

I've been leaving trails of all my broken thoughts like I miss you too much.

She gave away all her dreams to someone who forgot to imagine some of their own. She let someone borrow all her hopes since they never cared to find and set their own goals. She lost sight of things she had wanted from becaming too busy making sure everyone else got what they did.
It's aftermath when all the time in the world is running out a little too quickly. And all you've been left with is what you're holding. But your hands are just full of everyone else's lives, and they're all scattering around trying to take them back.

Your eyes tell a never ending story: the longer I look, the more I fall apart.

Closing serenity, trapped in a void.
I'm officially worthless, forever destroyed.

It's some stupid non-fiction story about some girl and a boy that you made up in your fucked up mind. And every night while you were trying to wind down a little from your day.. you'd go ahead and jot a little more of your not-so-happy fairytale.

Everyone's more beautiful when no one is there looking.

I want to hang from some beautiful wall one day. Slightly crooked and cracked precisely, with the mold already coming down, and the paint slowly chipping away.

I'm hanging by stars.

A very lonely girl looks down at the empty photo album and she imagines all kinds of memories with him she'd love to fill it with.
She sets the headphones down around her neck as the tears began falling again. And she tries to heat up her freezing fingertips with the warm air coming from her mouth.

Stitched up all of what was left of her dead heart and she just became the fucking same. A broken little girl, a queen with a new name. And pointed she did and stared towards her new found fame.

Call me selfish, but I wish she meant every word of what she said. Because.. because when she finds the most hateful words to throw in his face, then turns around, and then says she doesn't mean it. Well.. I lose ground.

Clean the razor. Retrace your steps.

I've learned to reorganize catastrophes.

Time hangs on a wall, around a wrist, in the back of our minds.
Time does not stop.
It speaks in ticks and tocks.
It formulates a noise that denotes a precise and rapid motion.
We live and we die all by a date and a time. When we both enter and then leave this place, it is just a record that's kept.
We are just a number, a sequence.
We're just a rushing moment, yet we're at a controlled pace.
Nothing ends with us. We're just what is between the between the before and the after, the on and off beat pattern, the definite of night and day, dawn and dusk.
We're our own deadline, a chaotic labyrinth that runs and repeats in circles.
Our entire lives are live in the form of statistics. And we all spend out existance trying to make it to number one. And hey, could you please tell me this? What the Hell is it all for?

Who knows what make believe even is anymore?
My imagination is too sour, but everyone seems to be having problems.
Maybe I'm not alone.

Does your new begining still contain a few pages left of the past?

Never Forgotten.
We still look over our shoulder thinking we saw you somewhere. We still get chills up our spine when we hear a laugh that reminds us of yours.

This world is a just a broken machine.

..I couldn't even explain what the first mistake was..

Nothing will ever be worth anything unless you give it a second thought.

Hold on so I can write you in for a memory. Maybe you'll be worth the space.

This is the story of her life.
She will find the lesson and will tear the pages out. Then she'll write in something new, something happier, something much more brighter, for she's not ready to share all of the tragedy and all of the pain, that way, just yet still.
She'll make up some fairytale for you, a wonderful tale of someone else's life. And you'll smile at it as if this was your very own.

I painted up my fantasy world with water colors and you melted with the tone.

It's when an old love dies.. wether it's the love of staying up late, the love of wishful thinking, the love you have for someone else, or just anything at all. ..and has shattered itself and you turn a blind shoulder. When nothing really matters. You're just trudging along, missing the way things were, but walking foward somehow anyway.
And could you answer me this? Why does it seem that when you find yourself walking away from things, or people, the direction you are walking towards is always the future?
Most would agree that you're better off not knowing me. And I doubt it's a shame either.

She was standing in the rain.. trying to gather up enough drops to be able to float back to you. And if it had meant that you'd come back and stay forever, well, she would have soaked herself the whole way through.

I had an outline of wishful thinking and the first five rows behind were about you.
My mediciene cabinent is filled with cures for when you want to stop breathing and the mirror slides so that every glance shows you a different clip.
I've always thought that I'd want to be hung from the celining of some convience store that's going out of business.
Get it?
I need to find some good intentions.

Do you ever find yourself in a dream and wonder if it's yours or someone elses?

Someone long ago told me that as long as the pages are blank my mind could never be at ease.

If I sent you my fingerprints, would you promise to come and find me? Or would you just disguse yourself and try blending in with everything and everyone else that's ever let me down? But congratulations are in order, for you are not the first one to give up, and you're not the first one to have ever given in. No. You're just a string of the same old endings, with the story getting pretty old.

Stars are suicidal tonight.

I think the hardest thing about entire years passing is that in my mind.. it's just another collection of days too late.

Erase all of my many flaws. Paint me back up with new scars.

A poster of your favorite band no longer hangs on her wall, and all your favorite quotes were thrown away with that old dry erase board.
But no, it wasn't her removing your from her life. You'd already done that.
Besides.. all the tape has lost it's ability to hold your memory up. They'd learned to peel themselves right off the walls.
One day, I'll have strength to throw every piece of you away. I just fear I'll regret doing so.

Outline maps of where you breathe so that you never forget.

It's rather hard to move on whenever the past is still begging you to stay.
It's afraid you'll leave it all alone.

She remembers days where she wouldn't see any daylight for at the very least seventy-two hours straight and would see nothing wrong with it. That crawling out of bed had become one of the hardest tasks, and even thinking about taking a shower is exhausting. That having to try speaking seems unbearable.
If you looked close enough, you could have seen the fear in her eyes as she admits that she can no longer tell how long she had been asleep. How remembering Monday like it was yesterday, but Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday seemed to have just passed her by.

The truth has rotten into a broken heart.

Sometimes I've wondered if my thoughts being strung out the way they are was some sort of individual plan that was set up for just me since my conception.

Is there something better on the next page?

Queen of lies. Throwing dead butterflies.

There is a moment that is absent of my days that wait for you to come and make me whole again.

Fairytale Over.