Homeless, and loveless and everything in between

a photo blog is what brings myself back to me.

drew chessie, i do not know you.

but your work makes me feel alive
http://www.flickr.com/photos/drewcakes/with/5687679124/

Folk punk, let's fuck shit up!

we've got melody and passion,

 and want to tell you our thoughts.

concertinas and and guitars 

and instruments that you would've forgot.

we're homeless

we're car-less

but our lives are said and strummed

if you've got something important to say

you will surely succumb

emotions and  opinions

other than the usual "fuck you"

come over, 

emote proper,

and we'll give you something new

lullaby's and and lovely ties

and crying melodies

scream your heart out in the rain

"FOLK THE POLICE" 

dirty hands, the smell of moss, the golden light shinning through the blades of grass. moisture.foreign tongues and faint traces of familiarity. oxygen. no one to express my emotions too. but it's fine. i have a pen, a pad of shitty construction paper, memories of being held in your unforgiving arms, and a stick of glue.



this.



este.


este es mi vida.

i really want to tell you to fuck off, but unfortunately, the it's only beginning.

i'm so fucking confused with myself right now.what am i? i want to be me but when i find myself copying others, i feel as if i've failed. my mom likes to judge me whenever i come close to experimenting with different aspects of myself. of MYSELF. i listen to a large variety of music, half of the day i listen to elliott smith and bonnie prince billie, and the other i  listen to appendix (Finnish hardcore band) and leftover crack. and if i dare listen to something either she doesnt listen to, or that she used to as a teen, i'm suddenly fake and unoriginal. i spend too much time with my mother for her opinion of me not to matter. i see her every second of every day, and she's very good at convincing me that i'm fake and lying to myself. that she knows who i am, and me discovering is NOT who i am. i dont fucking know myself, how can she?i dont have any one to talk about this to, nor any reason to leave the house as a break from my social oppression. i feel stifled, like i'm in a glass box, kicking, screaming, and no one can hear me. they just look at me and nod. i dont fucking know who or what to believe anymore, because i dont have  clean record of telling the truth,