Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > , carnival graveyards
“How was it?” Patrick asks, looking up at Pete who had just come through the door.
“Fine.” The raven headed bassist replies monotonously. Patrick nods, a little unnerved by Pete’s strange calmness.
“Well, that’s good. I’ll go pay, go out to the car.” Patrick’s voice is cheery as he stands up and throws Pete the keys; he barely caught them. Pete barely caught them.
“’K.” He says, trying to be nonchalant and cool as he exits the building, hand clenched tightly around the metal of the keys. There’s a small smile on his face, and even Pete himself is unsure of its place in this world.
He walks to the car but instead slides into the driver’s seat of Patrick’s car. With shaking hands the bassist slid the key into the ignition, pressed down on the brake, and pulled down from park to drive. His head turns, glancing toward the entrance of the business to see a confused Patrick.
He waves at Patrick as he came bounding across the pavement in the direction of the car, presumably screaming ”What the fuck, Pete?”
---
“Peter, what do you want to be when you grow up?” They would smile at young Pete, who would put some thought before he answered them.
“I want to write stories for people! I want to be a writer.” Everyone would smile at young Pete and fawn over how adorable he was.
Yes, he remembers, as he rolls down the window and throws his ringing phone out the window. He had never felt so alive as the wind grabbed his raven hair and tugged gently at it.
How fast was he going? Who cared? He was free! He has never felt so alive as the party lights flashed in the rearview window; where’s he seen that before? He presses down harder on the gas; the blue of Lake Michigan on the horizon is now in view. A huge smile passes over Pete’s face; the blue of the lake takes his breath away before the water can.
--
My heart is a black haunted loom, weaving jackets for children who'll never be born. My hands are abandoned factories manufacturing heartbreak and hate for the world. As we waltz the broken dance of our limbs this ballroom has been groped by so many evil whims. As I drill the last hole into you, the well of your body has hardened into glue.
Everything is gonna be just awful when we're around. All the colors gonna rot off your sight when we're around. I remember the day that I sold my smile to that nice couple who lost their first child. I threw in a set of sympathy, and a bucket of popcorn for the cemetery. But now my face is all fenced off, the sky is boarded up, the hills covered in drop cloth.
How many chords till this song vomits out real love? How many feathers to pluck naked the soiled dove? How many whores till you send away for that trophy? And how many punches till you give yourself away for free? Because those bruises on your face look like the sun setting in disgrace. (From these cliffs you can see the whole city laid out groveling like a field of wounded soldiers. The billboards in heat and hissing, the sky scrapers stitching the gash of the earth. As they waltz the broken dance of their limbs their ballroom has been groped by so many evil whims.) Everything is gonna be just awful when we're around. All the colors gonna rot off your sight when we're around. I am just a salesman pleased to meet you can I show you around. Every thing must go, the shadows, the seagulls, when we're around. This is our shame.
---
Author's note: Is this the end? I don't know. Is this the end of Pete? Could very well be. It's short, but I desperately needed to upload something, and somehow this just came out. I probably could have gone into more detail, but I didn't, and I might later. Am I weird for sitting down and then just letting words flow? Tell me, do you guys actually have a very detailed plot all written out when you sit down and begin to write it, or am I just that ADHD? Anyhow, as of right now- this story could go anywhere. I could deem it finished right now (somehow, I don't think that this is the end of it) because I can't write anymore to it, and have that be the end of it, or I could do something else. Perhaps that's what makes this story to special to me, the complete randomness of it. My mood, I am sure, affects this story somewhat. The next time (or if) you read it, it could somehow begin to turn upward. I never thought about it until now, but maybe it somehow helps portray the bipolar personality better. I don't know. Sorry about that ramble, he he. =]
Disclaimer: Lyrics by the Blood Brothers.
“Fine.” The raven headed bassist replies monotonously. Patrick nods, a little unnerved by Pete’s strange calmness.
“Well, that’s good. I’ll go pay, go out to the car.” Patrick’s voice is cheery as he stands up and throws Pete the keys; he barely caught them. Pete barely caught them.
“’K.” He says, trying to be nonchalant and cool as he exits the building, hand clenched tightly around the metal of the keys. There’s a small smile on his face, and even Pete himself is unsure of its place in this world.
He walks to the car but instead slides into the driver’s seat of Patrick’s car. With shaking hands the bassist slid the key into the ignition, pressed down on the brake, and pulled down from park to drive. His head turns, glancing toward the entrance of the business to see a confused Patrick.
He waves at Patrick as he came bounding across the pavement in the direction of the car, presumably screaming ”What the fuck, Pete?”
---
“Peter, what do you want to be when you grow up?” They would smile at young Pete, who would put some thought before he answered them.
“I want to write stories for people! I want to be a writer.” Everyone would smile at young Pete and fawn over how adorable he was.
Yes, he remembers, as he rolls down the window and throws his ringing phone out the window. He had never felt so alive as the wind grabbed his raven hair and tugged gently at it.
How fast was he going? Who cared? He was free! He has never felt so alive as the party lights flashed in the rearview window; where’s he seen that before? He presses down harder on the gas; the blue of Lake Michigan on the horizon is now in view. A huge smile passes over Pete’s face; the blue of the lake takes his breath away before the water can.
--
My heart is a black haunted loom, weaving jackets for children who'll never be born. My hands are abandoned factories manufacturing heartbreak and hate for the world. As we waltz the broken dance of our limbs this ballroom has been groped by so many evil whims. As I drill the last hole into you, the well of your body has hardened into glue.
Everything is gonna be just awful when we're around. All the colors gonna rot off your sight when we're around. I remember the day that I sold my smile to that nice couple who lost their first child. I threw in a set of sympathy, and a bucket of popcorn for the cemetery. But now my face is all fenced off, the sky is boarded up, the hills covered in drop cloth.
How many chords till this song vomits out real love? How many feathers to pluck naked the soiled dove? How many whores till you send away for that trophy? And how many punches till you give yourself away for free? Because those bruises on your face look like the sun setting in disgrace. (From these cliffs you can see the whole city laid out groveling like a field of wounded soldiers. The billboards in heat and hissing, the sky scrapers stitching the gash of the earth. As they waltz the broken dance of their limbs their ballroom has been groped by so many evil whims.) Everything is gonna be just awful when we're around. All the colors gonna rot off your sight when we're around. I am just a salesman pleased to meet you can I show you around. Every thing must go, the shadows, the seagulls, when we're around. This is our shame.
---
Author's note: Is this the end? I don't know. Is this the end of Pete? Could very well be. It's short, but I desperately needed to upload something, and somehow this just came out. I probably could have gone into more detail, but I didn't, and I might later. Am I weird for sitting down and then just letting words flow? Tell me, do you guys actually have a very detailed plot all written out when you sit down and begin to write it, or am I just that ADHD? Anyhow, as of right now- this story could go anywhere. I could deem it finished right now (somehow, I don't think that this is the end of it) because I can't write anymore to it, and have that be the end of it, or I could do something else. Perhaps that's what makes this story to special to me, the complete randomness of it. My mood, I am sure, affects this story somewhat. The next time (or if) you read it, it could somehow begin to turn upward. I never thought about it until now, but maybe it somehow helps portray the bipolar personality better. I don't know. Sorry about that ramble, he he. =]
Disclaimer: Lyrics by the Blood Brothers.
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