make like yellow and slow downThis is a story about octagonsand road rage. Well, actually,this isn't a story; instead, thisis a to-do list. So complete it.*Paint a stop sign green,and GO away, one way,says an arrow on someother sign not to follow.Paint this one magenta;paint that one cerulean.Transform an entire streetinto a Crayola crayon box.Park in a no parking zone.Go directly to jail. Escape.Go three times the speedlimit, dumbass driver. Getcaught. Get a ticket. Geta life. Give me your ticket,but tell me it's for a train.Paint the railroad crossingsign invisible. Wait for it.Eat the 't' in train. "Hey,I'm a weatherman now."Flash flood alert: drownyourself. If you survivethe trainwreck, at least.Locate the nearest crosswalk,and backflip to the other side.Please get hit by a bus or caror truck. Get run over by anambulance for the Irony. Diein the hospital. I could hope.<
we became an atlantic tragedy.we first met april 14, 1912.the ocean smelt beautiful.the crashing waves mimickedyour hips crashing into mine;mimicked you crashing theparty in my mind; this boatcrashing against the tide'sbone structure. wet. salty.disaster-waiting-to-happen.that could be spotted twonautical miles away. it wasmy first time, your first time;innocence's maiden voyage.in case you forgot,your clothes sankto the floor;your body sankinto mine;my heart sankinto you.there was:too much crashing.too much sinking.too much motion.i swear one of uswould get seasick.i cruised my handacross your hair--it was 49 minutesto midnight."make a wish." you said."but it already came true.what else could i want."then it happened. you knowdamn well what fucking "IT"means. "IT" is your eyes inlove yet your skin is in lust."IT" is the second and thirdletter of the TITANIC. "IT" isa fucking iceberg in my chest.ther
maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrowShe was cute, funny, and timid; sitting three rows behind him; never speaking; laughing at his innocent clumsiness. By the subtle glances he thought they exchanged, he knew she was something special. She captivated his sorrowed tongue, deleted the salt from his spellbound eyes, evaporated the polluted puddle careening in his train-wrecked past, and he didnt even know her name.You see, his previous infatuation wasted a year from his already-dwindling life, and his tolerance for heartache increased with every reminder of his infected memory. He tamed nostalgia with painkillers and poetry, remedied struggles with futures feigned optimism, but thats not what this story is about; no, this story is about him, her, and the mutual words they could have, should have, ought to, but never bothered to say.--He was dorky, self-conscious, and timid; sitting three rows in front of her; always dreaming; blushing at his casual embarras
Is My Heart Broken?I don't understandWhy my heart beats the way it doesWhen I see your smiling face.
The Perfect CrimeShame inhaleselusive blisssmothering sweet smilesthat were edging my lips