As I crunched my cornflakes, slowly, because I like midway sogginess, I thought of you. You're such a flake. Unlike a boring ritual of cereal consumption, I know you'd be delicious during the quiet of morning. Not saying a word together while fumbling breakfast items, bare feet in the kitchen, sensing each others vibes whether it will be an easy or long day. The window allowing broken light to shine your clean features that I find so pleasing. Those are just some thoughts as I zone, waiting for the carbs to put me in motion, not forgetting you're a flake.

The approximation of early spring and summer nights are Basket Case days. I'm the type that puts all the eggs in the wicker weavings, exactly opposite to what I was advised against. One breaks, everything breaks down, I have a breakdown. Suddenly the sun doesn't look so friendly anymore. It casts maniacal laughing rays of condescension and eternal damnation on me. Everyone else who coddled their goods keep it together happily. Me? I end up in after shock, idiot-gaped, staring at scrambled brains on the sidewalk. Hope springs eternal…I never understood that saying. I'm not interesting in finding out either.

You don't smoke anymore, for that I'm grateful. But I wish you would've been sufficiently efficient to get your tickets before the show sold out. It could've been beautiful. We could've had some perfect stranger blow haze in our faces as a favor. We could've inhaled the incense in the curled clouds of billowing smoke, that sweet scent. The music blasting, the wave of crowds, would be nothing but a dream surrounding us. We could've stared into our glazed eyes, giggling and surrealistically connecting together. We'd bump foreheads, our noses accidentally touching, and our lips just grazing, no tongue required.

25 years into it, almost twenty-ssss…. I can't finish it. Still haven't found my most exact opposite match. Don't believe in soulmates, no. But I do believe there are certain halfs out there that match your chemistry, your mind, in the otherworld and in dreams. The ones who finish your sentences, or better yet, they don't have to be spoken aloud since they're understood before they're expressed. Actually, I did find him. And we weren't ready. And then I found the other one. And mirror images scare him. I would settle for a girl friend who's cycle synched with mine.

Growth is most prevalent where we don't want it. We spend much time clipping our fingernails nails to hold down the strings and not hear tapping on the keys. We shave, pluck and laser at unruly follicles. Garden weeds have to be, well, weeded to see a crop. Our bad habits creep up on us before we find them. The negative desirables are an invasive vine specie smothering all that should be indigenous to personal success. The fittest survives, but maaan, does it take arduous training and maintenance to uncover the goodness under all the rapidly multiplying intrusions of life.

Riding in the backseat of a car, some light swaying action from the steering, our thighs touch. At a sharp left, the abrupt motion will slip me closer and our breathing would become heavy, if not halted altogether. We have no control of the speeding vehicle or the beating hearts. His arm wraps to rest over my shoulder, so he can sustain stability hanging on to the handle atop the passenger window. I slowly lean, my lips touching his ear with but a whisper, "When things get rocky, you slide away". I tighten my arms and folded knees, holding myself.

There is not a place in this city where I can listen to silence. Not a patch of grass I can stare off into without seeing a gas station or hear the highways roar by. You have to look directly up at the sky to contemplate God. Otherwise, I Iive in a steel-toned, man-made world where the car you drive defines you or the number of skanks you lay. All this spinning madly around me, distorts the clarity of my purest thoughts. I find my writing growing bland. I haven't become shallow like them, yet I feel drained of substance.

I need to call him. What for? I've always tried to determine if that question is purely for rhetoric. I want to say it's more of a trick question. Trick yourself into stumbling upon your own solution so you can't debate someone else's logic. Time saver I suppose, but only if you're willing to answer it.

What for? What for? So he can be short with me. So he can lead me on again. So I can self-flagellate without visible scars. So he can trick me and design a whole new paradigm of questions that should and shouldn't be answered.

Every time I hear our songs, I die. But that's the stuff of great poetry. What makes a better lyricist than a heartbroken lover. Those hollow voids must be filled with something. Why not with song? In an idyllic world, however, there would be no poets and writers because there would be too much living and happiness going on to busy themselves with minor chords and crying violins. But in this broken place with the weight of gravity dragging us down, there is no floating in ecstacy. Just weeping in the corner of a floor, with a notepad and guitar.

Wow. I can hardly believe it. I’m in the privacy of my home, typing from bed, in the quiet of the night, living the American dream. I boosted the economy. I charged a laptop. I sunk myself right into debt like everyone else who’s ancestors crossed oceans and borders to be here. Not only can I access the world in my room, but I also tricked out my car’s crap factory system with a stereo system. But if you think about it, it wasn’t necessarily greed or impulse. I need to type on a whim. Need music every waking second.

Eloquence is out of the question this moment. I just want to get higher with the least resistance possible. Somehow my doctors never believe the severity of my pain. But I scored on this instant. Sort of. The tablets were borrowed. Two wasn’t enough, so with a mug I washed down the drop of leftover red wine, because the rum is long gone. Quickly I might add, since I’ve apparently driven my father into alcoholism. And I’m rising up without a struggle, such a floating ease. But well do I know what follows. That the trip to hell is downhill.

Wish you were here…in my head… all of you. Standing over the piano, it has transformed into a multidimensional orchestration of all forces. I can see the waves take off from the surface of the strings, shooting in invisible undulating frequencies. The wavelengths not only dance majestically, but they taste delicious in the buds on my tongue. And as my fingers perceive the precise mathematical weight and value down on the keys, I can simultaneously visualize the rations recalculating themselves between the notes I’m hearing, that I can even bend if I wanted to. It’s so beautiful, this phenomenal symphony.

God invented us brilliantly, with refueling works, a batteries included charger. But there are things I’d wish we’d been alive for to us drop off notes in the suggestion box. Could He have - within his power to manipulate laws of physics- maybe allowed us to regenerate our cellular system without requiring sleep. I know, I know. Some of your relish in your blankets, but you wouldn’t have that desire had you never known the plush of it. And most efficient advice, our waste system… couldn’t it just disintegrate into a vacuum, rather than requiring such a filthy exit route?

What do lonely people do? They drink wine at night. They pick up hobbies. They balance their checkbooks pretty often and they’re caught up on bestsellers. They go to night clubs and fill up black books. They must occupy their time whether they choose to be loners or not. Nothing wrong with that. But the underlying expectation -goal - of society is to be paired up with a potential constant as proof of long term stability and a measure of our appeal factor. Notice how I started off in third person and switched to first. Ah, to be in expectancy.

Understand this would be said easier I under the influence, but I’m forever cut off. Or so I tell him, because he thinks its nifty we both agreed on it independently. Good boy, assuming I’m his partner , but he’ll soon call out my vulnerability when I mention all I crave is a malted whiskey, double, neat. I want to swirl it and sip it, like I want him to fuck me hard. But he’ll fear my demon and run madly in the other direction, instead of taking my death-gripped glass and mixing us some Shirley Temples and Roy Rogers.

Suggestions please… hand me your suggestions. All this nervous energy bubbling in my blood, impatient to redistribute itself, but finding itself trapped between skin and marrow. My worn body shakes and trembles do a degree invisible to the human eye, but at a subatomic level that disturbs the vibrating strings that compose the physics of the universe, in which travels through the air waves and crash into you the area of your vibe, disturbing your peace as a result of my instability. Help me channel it healthily though nature. One that enables sound sleep. It would benefit all humanity.

Violins…

Drop da beat…

Sing it girl:

I bust the windows out your car
No it didn't mend my broken heart
I'll probably always have these ugly scars
But right now I don't care about that part

You see you can't just play with peoples feelings
Tell them you love them and don't mean it
You probably say that it was juvenile
But I think that I deserve to smile

I bust the windows out your car
You know I did it cause I left my mark
Wrote my initials with a crowbar
And then drove out into the dark

A knit sweater draped my arms, midnight black skies draped my bundled little bones. Everyone acknowledged the brilliant sparkles hanging from the edge of the heavens, and continued right on to their huddle, kicking and pushing sand into piles and digging hands and pockets, trying to dilate their pupils wide enough to discern the silhouette of their friend. My concern for socializing was over, my neck was toward the eyes of the divine. I like the cluster’s struggling stars within other clusters that appear to fizzle out when you look directly at them. But they’re still glowing when you focus on another star.

Your shirt, I would declare, ranged in the bright baby blue spectrum. The vivid soft green popped the opposing blue. I won’t lie, what caught my eye from afar was the twinkle on your shiny bald head and the side profile of your pronounced nose, slightly imperfect yet somehow symmetrical. Then it was your eye contact with my friends and your subtle nervousness awaiting stamped approval of your dirty joke. Then the way you segued your way over to me and noticed my bright pink nail polish illuminated against my cerulean satin dress. After that, we were both heavily distracted.

Until recently, I’ve only allowed my subconscious awareness that I’m always in physical pain. I’m not in denial it exists, but I forget about it. Superficially, my bones, muscles and limbs throb, ache, and tighten. Sensations so permanent, I don’t give it thought. The mind has numbed it in order to cope. It contributes directly to the stress, it attributes to the burden of the brain. Now, it is fact, FACT!, (with emphasis) the anterior cingulate cannot differentiate between physical and emotional pain. I find my argument veritable and valid to feel confident in saying : Prescribe me the damn opiates!!!!!

Fuck you. For invading my flawed mind. My broken neural pathways that have a mind of their own attach to the pull of your stupid memory and bring themselves to the surface of my greatest effort to forget you. It’s been too long since you keep coming back. Not even your cheek remains, not one of your distinguishing freckles remains faithfully in my recollection, but something about you, nothing distinct persists. And I’m certain its nothing but a unleveled amount of dopamine, maybe a deficient of serotonin. Fuck off. You has have been erased. Give me peace.

Knowing I just lost 6-8 hours of life, I pop-up at before the sun rises. A moment is not lingered. I practically start running, despite my ailed jaw. The hurry is probably why I break so many glasses and bump into bruise causing objects. Lights, TVs spring to a buzzing, curtains unveil sunbeams. God forbid rain is forecast. I fight sleep like I do the Devil. Naps… never heard of it. I don't stand in line; I'd call it dancing. I want to be awake, living each second like it's on credit and I have dues to pay…for being alive.

There is no denying I screwed up again. Probably worse than ever, and that's saying something. Loss is painful enough, but when you're responsible for your own blunders, downfall, perdition, there is not a lot of argument to say "life is good". However, I don't feel hopeless. I fear the label I've been branded, but it's not rooted in my heart. The righteous will fall 7 times and still get back up. I may have lost … again …but I can start over and gain respect for making it right.

Whoa!!!! Where the hell did I pull out such positivity?

My February batch was complete. Timely, if I may add. But what happens? An evil scheme masked by reality. Some internet glitch, the option for my submitting is wiped out. I patiently wait and see, they'll work out the bug. Writers are posting, one after another. Meanwhile, there's a gap in my 2009 that I will obsess over for the remainder of the year and cringe if I dwell in the slightest. Although 11 is a prime, it still doesn't meet a complete dozen, the whole set. Damn you, Tech support, for ignoring the pleads in which reflect my loyalty.

Vocals is my preferred genre of music. Usually it's acoustic/folk or a form of pop. I fought the urge to have so many girly and emo-ish listenings in my eclectic collection. Every style gets my fair attention, but despite wanting to be so hardcore and bang my head and scream out angst and rebellious garbled statements, I affectionately lean toward the human wails and cooing. The way a wordless cry or sigh can express everything one feels and how intense they experience the world. Crescendos, down to whispers. All those climactic songs that persuade you to step in their shoes.

Typing is like playing the piano, only the sound emission is not so dissonant when erred. It's a demand for practice and preciseness. Proof body/mind yearns coordination. My hand/eye coordination is poor, my core awareness is laughable, but I'm proudly dexterous. The pitter patter of keys at high speeds resembles falling rain on days I cannot handle the complexities of music (I'm either listening intently to music or not at all). I do adore the movements of a complicated trill and never-ending scales that conquest the ivories, but I also love the up, down, side to side of letters.

In 100words, you learn to reduce expressions to a concise art. Even if you think you haven't fitted it all, you have, because the essence is what's important enough to make the cut. The excess fatty, the verbosity is sensibly eliminated. Arguments and tales become substantially upgraded as you carefully snip them into concentrated sentences. Don't even need impressive vocabulary. But one thing will never sit well with me is compressing a message into a 160 character text. It's unnaturally constricting. It's the birth of misunderstanding and death of communication. And it's damn annoying to send/receive 4 in a row.

Although I'm not beyond paying a extra dollars and cents to shop in quality stores, Walmart indeed is fast and conveniently located right side my house. Except… I patiently waited in line while a redneck yelled loud nonsense to his daughter, not pertaining to discipline or running amuck, whack-a-moling the debit machine, the older woman searing laser beams through me to skip me because she can, the youngun behind me boning to jump me. All stereotypes I prefer as assumptions were coming to life. No thanks, I'd rather shop where I don't have to fear getting capped in the ass.

The only art seen here is publicly disclosed within walls, in which access is granted by way of exorbitant admission fees. Imagination here happens mostly in the mind if brain cells survive after keeping up with society or the crash from ecstasy pills in the early morning. I miss naturally occurring colors. The rich color of roses come in sixty dollar bouquets. I have yet to see a growing colony of purple wildflowers. There is a side of town with beautifully green tidy lawns and golden gradient sunset balconies, but it's a little too gated for the lot of us.

There's a flaw in my emotional facial expressions versus what my nervous system is trying to communicate to my mandibular muscles and sometimes my eyes. In fear of being transparently revealed, I try to hold my expressions still. Yet I don't want to be unfriendly either if someone hasn't deserved it. I believe in politeness, based on benefit of the doubt, until proven otherwise. So I smile at people, strangers, warm characters. But to protect and not give myself away, I automatically press smiles, futilely counteracting the genuine gesture. Aside the fact that it doesn't make me look any prettier.

Who do I sue for emotional distress? Nobody informed me life would be this life-sucking. I wasn't deceived from the truth. I wasn't explained you never truly own your house after 30 years of payment, you encounter more idiots than friends, there is always an emergency purchase, the news affects cardiac health, pleasures are extremely ephemeral. I wasn't giving the option of euthanization at legal age. I was misled to believe prince charming would whisk me off the green pastures, ride us into the magical sunset in his steed to copulate and eat cake in our 175,000 square feet castle.