April 1, 2014
By Naomi Florsheim
I’m tumbled blue from the hours I’ve wasted and I can’t escape my fate or face this. I’m tumbled blue from the fairytales and lost loves I’ve never had and the lips I’ve never tasted.
I’m tumbled blue from wasting space on my hard drive with faces of people I have never met and if I do they won’t remember me in the slightest but the brightest of smiles are on my face because, hey, once they might have been like me and look how far they made it.
But they were never like me, because they made music on MTV, and baggy jeans and big dreams were cool and the silver screen was nothing compared to the vinyl discs they put in machines and radio was alive with hope and thought, today we bide our time, keep out heads down and hope we’re not wasting our days tumbling ourselves blue.
I’m tumbled blue because the music is me and I define myself by my dash and the sounds that come from my speakers. I’m tumbled blue and I can’t escape but my freedom is found in the form of sound, the pure power of the kick drum you can feel all through your chest, the music is what your heartbeat pounds.
But sometimes the doors are locked for me, no escape, no freedom, there is no key. They’ll mosh against barricades, crash like a sea on the shore, scream at the blackout before the encore and me? I’m sitting alone, tumbling myself blue.
I’m tumbled blue from what we’ve become. We spew out quotes and pretend we’re numb because the girl with the fire behind wings of eyeliner must be dumb, because she thinks she’s cool, she thinks she’s punk. She must slit her wrists and beg the boys to kiss the scars that only exist because she wants attention. She must be a romantic behind the cynic and a lover behind the critic and maybe that last one’s true but only because hate is acidic.
The acid on your tongue and the venom in your teeth mustn’t be lying because the girl with the eyeliner wings is still in this even when words are chilling the fire behind her eyes and the glamor is killing the best in us, we’re dying, and besides, what does it matter, when at the end of the day, she’s tumbling herself blue.