White Knuckles, Black Clouds, Red Head.

I woke up to my sides aching for no reason.
Just stiff, and tight.
A light throb.
I try to stretch it out, but end up passing gas and making it worse with a tightening crunch.

I sit and wait for my schedule to begin. 4 hours of purgatorial time-wasting.
No motivation to work.

I get to my lecture.
All goes well until my pitch.
For some reason, I'm nervous.
Maybe it's the eyes focused upon my, from all angles.
Maybe it's the tongue in my mouth being cracked and torn.
Or, perhaps it's my throat feeling like a black pepper and steak snadwich, tightly packed and itchy.

I leave feeling frustrated.
"A lack of clarity".
I want to hit someone.
I wish someone would try something.
I want to explode.

My legs ache.
Why I stand in a twisted act of charity, I have no idea.
I want to pass out.
I'm not even tired.

We are thrown off of the train.
Leaves on the track?
Either way, there are delays.
Sorry for the delay to your service.
What about YOUR service?

I refuse to explode.
I help the confused.
I have a conversation.
I can never let loose.

It seems like forever, but we're off again.
What seems like an hour is really 10 minutes.
I'm tired of it.

I get back to my car.
I sit, breathe and vent my anger.
I turn up the radio.
War of the worlds inside of a microcosm.
A bosom.

The sky is gray.
The rain is soft.
The mist is comforting.
Why does bad weather bring out the best in me?
The anger all but passes with the generations of reptiles in my automatic lover.
Left in the smoke and mist.

I get to my sanctum.
The childish mementos.
The familiar settings.
I long for one single thing.
I long for a comfort from afar.
I want her to be here, and to hear my roar in the quietest tones.
But she isn't.

Last I heard, she was running for earthy apples, or a singular one.
I can't blame her for not being here.
I'm the one who walks through life doing nothing about the routine and fucking ritual.
I just...

I want to be in a new situation.

An omen?
I had a dream.
I was suspended and afraid of falling.
I was crying on brittle wooden pegs.
I was crying for help.
I like to think the mystery saviour was you.

I know it was you.
It had to have been.

Dreams are special to me.
I don't have them often.
When I do remember them...

They're usually of you.

So I'll be here, for you and me.
The routine isn't bad if I get to spend even a minute with you.
So I'll keep walking and raging inside.
Because I have only a few more steps to go before my road opens up to the field of view.

I have my future ahead of me.
I'm just not sure of the way to go.
Maybe I'll stop and smell the roses.
Just for a while.

My rose.