When the reason hesitates,
and the voice of the heart
is the only thing that you can hear
no-one light can distract you
from the darkness
that obscure your eyes...
Confusion in my head
Confusion, in my head
and the stomach, in flames, twists itself
while my eyes caress your image
and rationality makes me ashamed of what I feel,
saying me that I'm wrong, and maybe...
Yeah, maybe I shouldn't...
Confusione nella mia testa
Confusione, nella mia testa
e lo stomaco, in fiamme, si contorce
mentre i miei occhi accarezzano la tua immagine
e la razionalità mi fa vergognare di quello che provo,
dicendomi che sono sbagliata, e forse...
Già, forse non dovrei...
Swearing fidelty to your new god
The heartbeat gets faster,
perhaps you close your eyes
while your lips are trembling,
at the thought to swear eternal fidelity
to your new god dropped on Earth?
Giurando fedelta' al tuo nuovo dio
Il battito del cuore si fa più veloce,
forse ti si chiudono gli occhi
mentre le tue labbra tremanti esitano, nervose
al pensiero di giurare fedeltà eterna
al tuo nuovo dio sceso sulla Terra?
Hey, baby, are you ok?
Hey, baby, are you okay?
Even from here I can hear
the sudden noise
that made your heart just now,
as it was breaking down for the suffering
and with tears in my eyes
I remain to watch you cry, unable to move,
not understanding who has
been able to do such a thing to you...
Piccola, stai bene?
Hey, piccola, stai bene?
Anche da qui riesco a sentire
quel rumore improvviso
che ha fatto il tuo cuore poco fa,
mentre si spezzava per la sofferenza
e con le lacrime agli occhi
rimango a guardarti piangere
senza riuscire a muovermi,
non capendo chi abbia potuto farti una cosa simile...
To the black of the German decade
And I'm brought back to the past,
to the black of the German decade '30 - '40
and the imagination runs
to look again the Rebels, the heroes
challenge the Reich eagle
while in my headphones spread
those patriotic songs by the hypnotic melodies,
elusive as the relentless course of history...
Al nero del decennio tedesco
E vengo riportata al passato,
al nero del decennio tedesco '30 - '40
mentre l'immaginazione corre,
guardando un'altra volta i Ribelli, gli eroi
sfidare l'aquila del Reich
non appena si diffondono nelle cuffie
quei canti patriottici dalle melodie ipnotiche e sfuggenti
quanto l'inarrestabile corso della storia...
Not a single soul beyond this door
There's not a single soul beyond this door
and the cold wrap me,
the storm's raging beyond that window over there
to which I can't arrive,
kept away from it by the rocky chains of cold iron
a sense of sadness, despair, overwhelms me
while I wonder, astonished, with my eyes wide-open
Oh, God, what have I done...?
i read about serial killers not saintsshe says, “what are humans made out of,
if not emotions and quirks and mistakes?”
i think to myself that humans are made
out of sinew and bone and tissue and if god hasn’t
found a way to love us bloodily and morbidly
then he will never be able to look past any
of our self-taught imperfections.
but i say none of this, just nod and smile,
and wonder what it means that to her,
all that i am is a series of mistakes stacked
on top of each other. my entire body is a past
i cannot outrun no matter how many times
i move away and forget my name and who i used
she tries to take away my body, but i have fought
for sixteen years to gain these inches of self-love
and i am proud to stand before her now wearing muscle
and skin. i want to tell her that i am ninety-three
percent star dust and that means ninety-three percent
of who i am has lived in a blackness so absolute
that the only light i had was the one i created for myself.
i want to tell her that’s something i thi
Self-Harm Isn't a HandbagPick at the scabs of the ghosts of scars
On the insides of my wrists,
White hot pain memories shoot up my veins
And the tear vapour creates mists
In the lenses of my glasses.
My world narrows down to those
White stitch marks that keep the
Patchwork of my forearms and thighs
Keeping the dark ugly hurt
On the insides
How could I have done this to myself?
Could I blame you?
And her too?
I’m a big girl now,
And the blame rests on my wrists,
That flicked the blade
And sprayed the blood,
And the mind that forbade
Me to ask for help.
I’ve said it before
And I’ll say it again;
It isn’t beautiful
To put yourself through such pain.
When your head is buzzing
From the hit of the high
Of a new cut on your thigh,
Or your mind is lost in a mist
Of ecstasy from a new slice
On your wrist
And you’re dependent on it
A junkie needing a hit,
It isn’t pretty or cute or special.
No amount of kisses
Will undo the cuts
Or absorb the scars.
the dress hangs in the back of my closet,
ashamed, limp and dangling
like a hanged lady at the gallows.
it is a faded reminder
of years ago,
of the body I wore
in times gone.
I run my fingers over the pale fabric,
trying to recall that dark peach pit
rolling in my stomach,
that intrusive disgust,
that unclear thought running through
my mind that night.
I was younger, then,
when I decided
I'd never be worth
a frame on the wall.
I peeled myself apart
in front of the mirror,
shed the dress like snakeskin,
left it like abandoning a child
and sent myself to
shiver against the wall.
while they all laughed
at their faraway party,
I trembled over the lyrics
of the deafening silence
in my middle school bedroom,
trying to ignore
that sad pink pile of my image
laying fat and loose in the corner.
today I slipped on the dress again,
stepping my toes into its frigid waters
before letting it tumble down over me.
I stood at the mirror
and decided that the dress was lovely,
The Wrong Side Of MidNightOn The Doctor's Train
I Met The Princess Of The Dawn,
But We Were
On The Wrong Side Of MidNight.
bullets in a shot glassAgain the archers are aching,
again their bones are breaking
like the cracks in the Colosseum.
Death does not defend
fighters; he does not fulfill
godly goals of
heaven and halos.
I am inverted, introverted,
a jester jeering
at kids who kiss
like life is long enough to fall in love.
my mouth is a machine,
a new nightfall
ordering our soldiers out
into pits where they pray for peace.
the quirks of our
ridiculous readings rule us,
sand us into sculptures
thin and tall, trembling.
our universe is built on uncertainty
and vicious virtues
written by long-dead warriors who
expected to live forever, and
I do not yield to your
What's the Definition of Perfect?I will never be the definition of perfect.
I want to burn magazines,
And throw rocks at my T.V.
Just to block their noise.
I hate looking at a scale,
And feeling like I've failed.
I hate the number that appears,
It makes me want to disappear.
But then there is that moment I realize,
That this is my own life.
I will not live it,
By the rules of society.
I am my own definition of beauty.
And I am pretty damn good at it,
I am sure as hell not fat or ugly,
So screw all those names those kids said to me.
I am me,
I am not skinny.
I am not pretty
Not in societies eyes.
But that's okay because I am not fake,
I have plenty of mistakes.
But you know what,
Because I feel more beautiful than ever,
When I see myself in the mirror.
Just as me.
Than worrying about others,
And running from my imperfections in fear.
So guess what,
Fuck. You. Society
With your magazines and size 0 models,
Because that is something I never will be!