Post by maverick marshall on Jun 27, 2011 23:30:45 GMT -5
&&now there's no beauty in-------
BLEEDING MASCARA
BLEEDING MASCARA
××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××
It was early spring in Central Park, and I sat alone, mindlessly strumming notes and chords on my guitar. The April wind blew ice cold through my shaggy hair, envoking shivers. Still, I kept strumming; somehow, the soft sounds of my mediocre guitar playing mixed with the hustle and bustle of the city was calming to my tangled mind.
The Lovesong Writers -- the band I sang and played guitar for -- was quickly filling with drama. Most of which was caused by Damien, the drummer and drama-starter of our quintet. He was always ranting about something, and this week, it was our sound.
"We're becoming too depressing!" was how he chose to start every single rehearsal. He would rant the entire time about how upsetting our songs were. The week before that, it was that our songs were too long, and the week before, we wrote too many lovesongs. Of course, that battle ended quickly, after we reminded him of our name.
That was also contributing to my distress; everyone in The Lovesong Writers was falling in love. Everyone, of course, besides me. If I'd bellowed about this to anyone, though, they wouldn't have believed me; I wasn't the kind of guy to sulk in his loneliness. I was funny, energetic; surely girls swarmed around me. That, however, was a dream too beautiful to be reality.
I knew that, one day, I would eventually find someone. Perhaps not the coveted one, but at least someone, some company in the jail cell that became my apartment. Someone to see a corny movie with, someone to stroll throught Central Park with, someone to kiss and hug.
Someone to have a nasty break up with.
I stopped my train of thought, not wanting to bring myself down that path of thinking. No one wanted to see the guitarist cry.
××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××
[/center]