"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.

Untitled.

You spend weekends splitting those you trust and those you love and those you despise into a deck of 51 cards and shuffle until it seems impossible that 2 will touch, and alas, your final card fits.
Great risks yield the rewards of romantic Monday night dinners, $9 mimosas with your father, and blissful humility. Everything is comprehensible with strings of imagination attached, securely double knotted or at times let loose for an overcast atmosphere of dreams and unique interpretations.
We lay on our backs and hold the hands of children as the colors of our visions drift but never fade. If it's euphoria you crave, find your parade.
There is art hidden in the world created through disturbances and phenomenas with mood and depth, until we attempt to measure it with the word "beauty", simultaneously reducing it to common understanding and categorizing it along with other abused interpretations such as love, prostituted for an exchange.
We are all inventors is our own right, drafting unique emotions and interpreting them as amicable monsters, encouraging self-destruction for the revitalization of character.
The problem herein lies within the fleeting feeling of anguish disguised as life and as vivid as a child dropping their slice of cake on the floor. Artists have no color on their palette to paint this pain. Sleeping visions on canvas yield interpretations; the cake never lands, tears fall faster and that fleeting feeling is melancholy replacing gravity. Use shoe strings to keep from floating away. Imagination and other true things never expire.