King Lear

Dear (fill in the blank),

I see the manure, and I can't help but wallow in it. :)

Reminder: You just better have your manure in a row.
(or ducks, which ever.)

I hesitate.
As I should.

I would regard, this as what I refer to,
"fake breast" mood.

Fake breast mood is when I want something, and it sounds like a great idea, but really, I need a firm grip of reality. I do not want fake breasts, please refrain from misconstruing what I mean.
I think things, could improve.
Maybe, I just want too much.
Maybe, I'm not getting enough.

You read this correctly,
I'm just not getting enough.

Enough of what?

Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, dear.
And, everything else in between.

Did you know, there's no cure for Home?

There are way too many times, I want to give into the glutenous side of me.
Eat, drink, not worry.
I'm not nearly enough of who I could be. And it discourages me.
It shouldn't, I know.

It's as if,
I were delivered in a box, marked,
FRAGILE

Do you ever wonder about coincidences?
This is something I do not believe in.
I believe everything, every situation, is created.
By our own hands, by other's choices.
It's way too convenient to pawn that kind of thing off.
Where's the accountability?

Where's Waldo?

Where's the fun in letting something made up take the glory?
I love being "in" the story, doing it up, playing it out.
I love, that you are a part of it too.

It's good to think I write things that are relatable.
It means, I am doing a good job.

Nothing really happens on "accident."
No matter, how much you want to convince yourself so.
Situations, occurrences, happen!

And, ultimately, turn into satisfaction.

I suppose that's why "plans" and I do not really mesh.
Everything I plan, always changes, just a little bit,
or, a lot of bit.

When I plan, I also "expect."
And, when I "expect,"
I always anticipate too much.

On people,
myself.

I want too much.
There it is, in black, and white.

I carry too much weight on my little shoulders,
I imagine myself as an "Atlas" type.
When, in reality, the mirror reflects me,
as delicate, as butterfly wings.
Crushed easily.