I feel sick because there are things in this world that make no sense.
I feel weak because for weeks I want someone to tell me:
How to live life.

I have no experiences because I keep jumping off cliffs thinking I will fly.
I have no will because it’s been beaten out of me.
I have no strength because I learned that the mind is the strongest thing.
I have no confidence because the Pinnacles and the Burnett’s burn my injuries leaving me breathless, hopeless, jobless, penniless, homeless, without an ounce of forgiveness.

Soon, I lose meaning to my own name. In Japanese, in reading Hiro, it means wide, and in writing I am the sea, together, my heart is as wide as the sea.
I told everyone I’d make a name for myself, but the only name I am not getting called is Hiro.
Stupid says one
Failure says two
Reject says three
Cocky says four
Liar says five
While six, seven, eight, nine and ten are waiting to count down my days, five, four, three, two, then one.

Where my life is spiraling, I have no will, strength or confidence to stop it,
But my experience with Descartes and Bernoulli says, while r is where I’m at and theta is how long I’ve been going, e as the base of logarithms, and a and b are arbitrary positive real constants, r equals a times e to the power of the quantity b times theta.
And how far I’ve traveled in life is defined by Torricelli by r over the cosine of phi, but I won’t know how far I’ve gone till I die.
Bernoulli tells me I’m infinite, but Torricelli tells me where I’ll end up is finite. But how I feel and what I understand is indefinite.

I write to save my name. For it’s the name at the end any piece that gets the cake.
I want you to listen, but I know that only the
Voted off Survivor, Lost on an island in the scripted Real World will hear my Voice.
I’m saddened by the reality that my life can’t be scripted, but is ridiculed just the same.
I’m not asking for your pity or your sympathy, but rather, for your tenacity.
I want you to hold onto your proud moments and let me take the sad ones;
Because like a flower, your soul will bloom because the world needs you.

I was asked by a boy to hold up his sign during a rally
He crouched down to tie his shoe.
I looked down at him and thought him above me to come alone.
Facing no more than his shoe laces against the racing clock, he triumphs,
But in a matter of seconds is stepped on by hate and tripped over by ignorance,
I lost the boy but kept his message:
A Dream is powerful if enough agree,
But is ignited by the spark of one’s act to pursue it.
The catch is this: There are Too many people scared to step out alone.
I came with two others, a driver and a wanderer,
Both masking themselves with inebriation and dehydration in a bottle,
Fermenting flavors like mango and apricot to find that the Pyramids are sweet, not dry.
These days, I look for occupation, so I can occupy time with French fries, grocery bags, or old ladies placing an order, so I don’t have to think about the suicides, homicides, genocides, rapes, or people killing with guns, and worse, killing people without guns, burning buildings that I can’t jump into to save the coughing and the wheezing of My Dear Aunt Sally.
I took an order at a bakery once, and I had a call from Timmy’s mom wanting the Disney cake that isn’t in the book.
He likes sex, drugs and Mickey, but we were only licensed to do two because Buena Vista didn’t sign off on the copyright.
While thinking about sleeping I ran to the basement to get vitamins because that’s the mood I’m in. I’m feeling like the empty gym floor on December 31st, and a full 24 on January 1st; the non-devout Russian Jew that doesn’t know Hebrew. I’m sorry if that offended you, but I know plenty of Christians that only go to church after their affair, and by God’s will shall they be cleansed because nowadays, if you have money, church and sex appeal, you’re safe. And if you have any two of the three, a simple “sorry” will get you through to Heaven. That’s why I like Mormons: they say in their six steps to repentance that you have to rectify the problems caused by the sin.
A Mormon mom I know didn’t pay to get into her school fair.
Then a few years later, she worked and paid the fare ten fold.
She told me that the word is true and that the prophet Joseph Smith found the gold plates and saved the church.
I’m not a Mormon because I’d disgrace the church.
From Moses, Abraham and Matthew, I learned the Great Price of Pearls:
That with time and patience, a person can construct miracles.
But I know I’m not capable of performing miracles, for, patience is a virtue I don’t understand.
And I still feel weak because for weeks I want someone to tell me:
How to live life.
I wish someone told me how to be a man, because being a woman is so much harder.
I don’t have ovaries that hate me once a month,
Nor do I have the will, strength or confidence to carry an egg and bring it to life
Nor do I have the unfathomable resistance to endure pain to work through labor contractions.
Which brings me to question: what can I do?
I can write, think and speak, but I can’t promise to change your words.
I can listen, feel and dream, but I can’t promise to change your mind.
But I can promise one thing.
When I die: I’ll learn how to live life.