unreal reality composed of uselessness and frivolity

i want to talk about pain and confusion and heartache, you know the kind where it sinks and even hurts in your stomach, and i want to talk about dropping bombs and all these songs that keep my boots on. (the heavy kind of boots) i want to talk about icky thump and neutral milk, rediscovery, warped vinyls like bowls, useless bowls. i want to talk about how any strength of feeling was stolen from me, and i want to create without fear. i want to let go i want a picnic and i want to day dream about listening to music while laying and wasting summer days to come and the subsequent nights that will burn my brain with memories and thoughts like my tattered quilt.

i want to, but i don't
i want to but it's all too surreal
all too unreal, all too much apart of a brutal reality...
i want to but-- it would just be white noise