some pure thoughts i wrote. never finished it, but here you go

run away
never come back
that’s the only way to
write your own music
write your own way
write your own life
write your path
write who you are
the place we call home is nothing but a lie
a lie to each other
to ourselves
to all that we know
but what do we know?
we know nothing
we know to follow
we know to copy
we know to do what we’re told
fuck originality and burn down love
fuck what i am and fuck whatever you are
what are we?
we don’t know
nobody knows
we lost it all a long time ago
somewhere in the interbred children of mtv and tabloid magazines
somewhere where we know about each other only through internet profiles
what does your voice sound like?
who gives a shit when i recognize you by your msn font
what is the truth?
maybe i heard about it on some tv documentary
or is that just a lie
i am a lie
you are a lie
we are all lies
lies that want to know if we walk properly
if we talk properly
if we chew properly
if we fuck properly
who’s the one saying what’s proper and what’s not anyways?
i turn the hands of my own clock
i say that but i’m worried if i’m doing it properly
we’re all to preoccupied wondering what people think of us
what they’ll say
how they’ll judge
some say that they don’t give a fuck what others say
but those who do are just lying to themselves
it’s too hard for us to turn back now and not care what others say
when we’re all making ourselves look nice for photographs
because you know that they’re gonna end up on the internet
oh no! don’t put that picture up
but you want that picture up
you want the world to see the plastic image you made of yourself
so that they can say stuff about you
so that they can judge you
so that they’ll know that you’re doing stuff properly
that way others will see you and initiate you into the plastic ranks of society
a place we all dread but where we want to be at the same time
because if you are different you are hated
fuck those people who refuse to play follow the leader
who refuse to where the same boots that you do
who refuse to listen to your music
who refuse to be one of you’re cheerleaders
i was one of those people
weren’t we all?
but then we give in at the end
we’re tired of being left out in the cold
while everyone else is pretending to have a good time
we feel that if we don’t pretend, we are not worthy of this planet
and so the plastic people gain another follower
and the drifters and dreamers lose another prophet
i’m a sell out
i don’t know anyone who isn’t a sell out
i used to know this girl who dreamed on her own
wrote her own songs and did everything the other way
she was one of my good friends
now she’s hanging out at the montreal club scene every night
the epitome of the plastic industry
i don’t know her very well anymore
we stopped really talking when i was around 14
guess i’ll never find out what happened to that girl who i respected a lot
because she wasn’t like any of the others