Only The Shit Counts.

This all serves a purpose.
Every single word matters
More than anything I have
Ever written
Because it's all about the context
The contrast.
You need to write a lot of shit
To make your brilliance shine through.
And in the end
The shitty ones
Are the ones they praise
While your brilliance
Is left to rust in
Peace.

Path of Hurt

I regret nothing
But I wish I could change everything
I wish I had a checkpoint
I wish I could go back and say
"yeah I think you're nice too,
but we'd just end up hurting sooner than later.
So I wish you all the best. I wish you'll find someone better
I wish you'll get better. You deserve a human being.
Not "this." "
I wish I would have done it
While it still didn't hurt us both.
Before we got hooked.
I never wanted to hurt you
And I already have
There is no bigger sin
Than turning one against oneself
Making one hate oneself.
And to that sin, I am guilty.
I wish I could stop hurting us.
But I love you too much.
And my existence is percieved
Through the path of hurt.

Wheel of Confusion

The sky feels so heavy
I can't lift it's weight
What I thought to be heaven
Turned out to be chains
What I thought to be balance
Was just another structure
I now see disolving in thin air
What I thought to be real
Was too good to be real
What I thought was a bad dream
Turned out to be real
I have another turn
On this wheel of confusion
And I lose everything
Again. And again. And again.
The sense of humiliation
The sensation of asphyxiation
That's real.
It stays with me when the reality
Comes crashing in.
I am a waste of stardust
Of energy
Of time
Of space.

This Is Not A Song

At this particular point I have no idea what I am going to write about.
It might end up being a song, most likely not since it has already assumed this sort of form.
It would be quite hard to make these opening lines to fit any song,
And it would be quite inconvenient to have this long introduction in any song.
Songs are supposed to get straight to the point and reach your soul within thirty seconds
So no, this is not a song.
Songs are supposed to touch your emotions and make you feel the writer's pain
So no, this is not a song.
At this present moment I am not in pain, just plain curious.
I am curious to see where this not-song will take me, since at this point it is becoming more and more clear
That this is not a song.
So what exactly is this,
If this is not a song?
Is it a poem of some sort?
Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
It may just be a strange, modern short essay on the technical aspect of writing songs
Which this clearly is not.
It may be just an experiment on human imagination, spewing out words like
Marshmellowcannon and spongewrench to make you conjure up things that are not real
Just to show you that they are still possible, since they are imaginable.
But one thing is for certain at this particular point:
This is not a song.
Why is that?
Well, because in songs you usually follow a certain type of structure, common in today's popular music
You have your verses and bridges and choruses
And this one has none of them
So no, this is not a song.
After all this refraining of the phrase
This is not a song
I've started to become more and more aware of the fact
That this certain phrase
This is not a song
Has become a sort of chorus
And all these inquiries about the nature of this piece serve as the verses,
And right before chorus there's usually a bridge just like this...
...So.. Was this a song?

Viimeinen ihminen (2010)

Ja kun maailma vaikeni tuhansia vuosia jatkuneen huutonsa jälkeen, pystyimme erottamaan tuhkasta kuvioita, ikään kuin hämmentäviä todisteita jostkain oman maailmamme ulkopuolisesta elämästä. Voimme vain arvailla mikä pyyhki heidän maailmansa niin täydellisen puhtaaksi elämästä. Mitä fysiikkaa koskevia säännöstöjä he noudattivat? Tiesivätkö he, ettei aika ole millään tavalla itseensä sidottu käsite, vaan he liikkuivat itsekin ajassa joka päivä eteen- ja taaksepäin? Tuhkaan piirtyvät kuvat kertovat ylimielisestä rodusta, joka jahtasi jotain, mitä se ei koskaan uskonut saavansa kiinni. Ja kun se lopulta sai etsimänsä, se sai yhden ohikiitävän hetken vilkaista tämän hauraan lasisen maailman kaikkeuden ytimeen, johon heidätkin oli kudottu kieliksi ajan ja avaruuden suureen soittimeen, josta 98% oli kaikukoppaa ja kaksi prosenttia itse soitinta, ja silti tuo kaikki sata prosenttia soi samassa sävelessä kaiken aikaa, ymmärtämättä sitä. Heidän maailmansa oli soitin, joka rikkoutui liian kovasta resonanssista, joka kasvoi liian vahvaksi ja mursi rikki rakenteen. Lasinen avaruus, joka soi 52 oktaavia liian matalalta soi hetken aikaa juuri oikealta korkeudelta ja paljasti heille kaikki salaisuutensa, minkä jälkeen se hajosi pirstaleiksi ja putosi heidän niskaansa. Maailma, joka oli ollut heidän hallinnassaan, nielaisi todisteet heidän olemassaolostaan.  Ihan vain vittuillakseen meille. Se ajaa meidät hulluiksi, koska me olemme pohjimmiltamme uteliaita ja tahdomme tietää mikä heidät tuhosi. Mikä oli se lopullinen tapahtumaketju, joka tappoi viimeisen ihmisen?

260210

Frustration's licking my ear
Like a hungry pedophile.
Why can't I just share my thoughts
Tell you it's over now.
You're like an angry kid on drugs.
Talking is useless.
If words are like bullets
You're either dodging them
Or you're bulletproof.
Dead Lane Staley sings to my brains
And only mine
That he's the man in the box
He's the only person who has a clue
About the way I feel.
And he's dead.
And he was addicted.
That's pretty much why he's dead.
What a pity...

The Past & The Present.

This darkness that surrounds my spirit
Every trauma inflicted to my vulnerable humanity
Mental abuse, rejections, social extortion
All the things I consider my past
Are enough to teach me there is nothing worth reliving in the past.
Every time someone tells me things were better in the past
I know they were not. You were just younger.
Things move from simplicity towards chaos.
It is the natural course of enthropy
And we all follow it's rules.
The more time there is
The further we write
The more our sentences define the meaning
The more it describes
The more it leaves out.
It is not worse.
It is more definite
And the more definite something is
The more finite it is
All possibilities become excluded
By the reality of existing things.
And the more finite it is
The more it freightens us
Because it reminds us of our own lives
Acting in exactly same way
We are born into our simple lives
Simple troubles
Simple joys
And then we grow up into this chaos
We call life
Which keeps getting more chaotic every day
And every day wipes out another chance
And when you're running out of chances
You start to panic.
But every single human being before you
Has gone through the same life.
So wouldn't it be nice
If we learned something of those lives
And grew to understand
That past was not better?
It was just simple.
And the present is complex
And complex is elaborate and beautiful.
Now carry this light of the present
And illuminate your past with the current understanding
You now behold.
See how much the darkness makes you appreciate the light.
It should not
Make you want to blow out the candle and stay in the dark.