I had a notebook filled with thoughts
These odd thoughts of mine.
One day I lost my notebook.
I left my thoughts behind.

My thoughts about the pains caused
When cruel things were said.
About my love of music
About wishing I was dead.

About the way my mind works,
The decisions that I make.
The friends I think hate me
The food I want to bake.

Do I want lace lingerie?
Or pretty little knives?
Should I learn to dance a waltz
Or practice how to drive.

Some thoughts were about projects
Some homework on my mind.
Have I worked hard enough?
Have I been kind?

This book was filled with all the things
That others should not know.
And now I cannot find it,
Where did my thoughts go?
If you come across them, please let me know.

I.
I have accepted my fate;
My inability to move, to speak
The fast-paced switching of scenes
Each time I get to blink.

I do understand the gap—
The pressure of compactibility; claustrophobia
Interferance may set you ablaze–
Or so I told myself.

II.
It has always been like this:
An ever-repeating cycle
The blending and molding
Into what I ought to be.

Time became my comfort
As I warmed and accepted change
Pieces of me were scattered
Now, I am complete.

So
I hate
HATE
washing dishes. But I don't
discriminate (pots and
pans and spoons and measuring
cups are also on my *****
list)

So
when I bake
in a microwave,
in one bowl,
with one mixing fork,
and no measuring tools,
it's sort of kind
of a bit of
a miracle
when the baked thing rises
AND it
tastes
ok

A little bit of sugar
a tiny pinch of salt
A couple of spoonfuls of cinnamon.
I single chocolate drop
throw it in some flour
and add a cup of milk
That is how you bake something
I hope that it did help.

Now mix the ingredients, until they blend so well
and you'll have a mixture
that looks as delicious as it smells.
Then put it in the oven
set it to bake
take it out when the timer dings
and you'll have yourself a cake.