21-year-old nose picker.
2.28.2011
"Postponed Breathing"
There has been this interrupted urge amplifying internally as it waits to be heard.
My conscience critter, once complacent and calm, now roars, now it itches, now it has evolved into a petrified passion and now it has developed a mind of it's own with a brain for love and spinal cord for beauty. It hasn't learned a language but the messages traverse neurons and fill them with electricity.
There's no reason I should be this young hosting a monster this big, inpatient and compounding a drug with the neglected love dripping from the honeycomb in the middle of my chest. It's encapsulating the emotion in pure anxiety and saleing dimebags to the intangible parts of me. [My conscience was first in line, accompanied by my demeanor and every stable memory.]
Now, with the combined effort of anticipation, they each lie overdosed in my lungs because she keeps saying "soon". She doesn't know that, for me, "soon" is asthma and I can't bare another fucking attack.
I don't know if it's me or the monster, but the air has seemed to have lost its purpose so I've postponed breathing, I've relieved my lungs to store incomplete metaphors, awaiting full maturity once they reach my tongue, once they become heard, once they are molded and understood.
The lifespan of my words is not a length, it's an interrupted urge traversing neurons and filling them with electricity, it's a heart-seeking warmth in the honeycomb of my chest, it's not-yet-stable due to her fragmented beauty that has yet to be appreciated, placed together, and held in certainty.
Certainty should last forever, as should the intangible parts of me who have postponed breathing in anticipation of "now".
There's no reason I should be this young suffering anxiety attacks in the form of petrified passion. As catastrophic as this catabolic monster seems, it remains dormant because "now" is not the time.
The honeycomb in the middle of my chest needs to focus on passing a drug test.
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I'm about 80% done with my book. I've changed the name to "The Reticent Genius & I'm Proud To Tell My Mother". I have been doing a lot of writing but I don't want to share all of it because then why the hell would you buy my book?
I wrote the first line of this piece around the time I turned 21 but I've been feeling this for a loooong tiiime. It feels good to finally get it written out.
Respect.
My conscience critter, once complacent and calm, now roars, now it itches, now it has evolved into a petrified passion and now it has developed a mind of it's own with a brain for love and spinal cord for beauty. It hasn't learned a language but the messages traverse neurons and fill them with electricity.
There's no reason I should be this young hosting a monster this big, inpatient and compounding a drug with the neglected love dripping from the honeycomb in the middle of my chest. It's encapsulating the emotion in pure anxiety and saleing dimebags to the intangible parts of me. [My conscience was first in line, accompanied by my demeanor and every stable memory.]
Now, with the combined effort of anticipation, they each lie overdosed in my lungs because she keeps saying "soon". She doesn't know that, for me, "soon" is asthma and I can't bare another fucking attack.
I don't know if it's me or the monster, but the air has seemed to have lost its purpose so I've postponed breathing, I've relieved my lungs to store incomplete metaphors, awaiting full maturity once they reach my tongue, once they become heard, once they are molded and understood.
The lifespan of my words is not a length, it's an interrupted urge traversing neurons and filling them with electricity, it's a heart-seeking warmth in the honeycomb of my chest, it's not-yet-stable due to her fragmented beauty that has yet to be appreciated, placed together, and held in certainty.
Certainty should last forever, as should the intangible parts of me who have postponed breathing in anticipation of "now".
There's no reason I should be this young suffering anxiety attacks in the form of petrified passion. As catastrophic as this catabolic monster seems, it remains dormant because "now" is not the time.
The honeycomb in the middle of my chest needs to focus on passing a drug test.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm about 80% done with my book. I've changed the name to "The Reticent Genius & I'm Proud To Tell My Mother". I have been doing a lot of writing but I don't want to share all of it because then why the hell would you buy my book?
I wrote the first line of this piece around the time I turned 21 but I've been feeling this for a loooong tiiime. It feels good to finally get it written out.
Respect.
Emancipate Yourself From Mental Slavery.
There's never a day that I go without listening to music. I have a bunch of Pandora stations playing through my iPhone in my car, while I'm at work and while I'm studying. There's been a lot of new music that I'm feeling (OFWGKTADGAF, Florence+The Machine, Kid Cudi) and I'm always staying true to 'Pac, BIG, Em, The Smiths, Nas... But lately I've been zoning in on the feeling of complacency that Bob Marley creates throughout each song.
If you don't know what I'm talking about, go put on "Is This Love" and TELL ME YOU DON'T START BOUNCING YOUR SHOULDERS AND/OR CLAPPING YOUR HANDS! HAHAHA that shit is me! How many of you have never sang "Jammin'" outloud in your best Jamaican accent?
Bob is the perfect remedy to those who are DONE with this weak-ass "rap" playing on Power 106. Bob doesn't have any lame punchlines, doesn't talk about getting pussy, he's not about ballin' out, know what I mean? If he was walking today, he'd never be courtside of any NBA games, no fuckin Super Bowl Halftime show, none of that shit. I swear, he was all about LOVE. No one can tell me Bob Marley is dead because no artist can make me feel the way he can. Everything is OKAY when "No Woman No Cry" is on, it's like- fuck ALL the pressures, the midterms, 5-page essays, all the pharmacy math, just everything. Listening to Bob Marley helps me write my poetry with a clear mind and keeps me on that thin line from completely dropping my Pharmacy career and just WRITE.
Emancipate yourself from Mental Slavery. This to me means keep all that is real and natural within yourself in your head, don't let anyone else tell you how to feel and don't let anything unneccesary influence your personality. Everyday you're going to encounter someone with a different attitude than you but you must not let it affect you or the way you're going.
Listen to more Bob Marley.
"In this bright future, you can forget your past"
Do You Remember?
"Do you remember when we first met? I sure do.
It was some time in early September
You were lazy about it, you made me wait around
I was so crazy about you I didn't mind
I was late for class, I locked my bike to yours
It wasn't hard to find ‒ you painted flowers on it
I guess that I was afraid that if you rolled away
You might not roll back my direction real soon.
I was crazy about you then and now
The craziest thing of all,Over ten years have gone by
And you're still mine,We're locked in time
Let's rewind"
This has always been one of my favorite Jack Johnson songs but now it seems to have a little more meaning.
Here's the video
It was some time in early September
You were lazy about it, you made me wait around
I was so crazy about you I didn't mind
I was late for class, I locked my bike to yours
It wasn't hard to find ‒ you painted flowers on it
I guess that I was afraid that if you rolled away
You might not roll back my direction real soon.
I was crazy about you then and now
The craziest thing of all,Over ten years have gone by
And you're still mine,We're locked in time
Let's rewind"
This has always been one of my favorite Jack Johnson songs but now it seems to have a little more meaning.
Here's the video
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