Chloroforming your joys,
disappearing in noise.
Writing to a feeling,
lost with a pen unpoised.
Corner lights fluorescent yellow,
the poisonous sweet smell of love so mellow.
Quit being a slave to a nameless voice,
let your today,
be a regretless choice.

I remember learning about Japanese culture in elementary school.

They taught us to say a few words, told us some Japanese stories, we learned how to fold Origami, and we got to try sushi and some Japanese candies.  

It was one of those cultural-week things.  It was cool.

Anyway, I remember at one point the teacher was telling us how every inflection matters when speaking Japanese, and that saying a word with the wrong inflection can turn it into a great insult.  

I remember thinking, "Wow, it must be really hard to speak Japanese."

Only now, when I'm almost 45 years old, do I realize it is literally no easier to speak American English or any language for that matter.

Every inflection counts, every word counts.  There are uncountable ways to insult someone, and indeed to be insulted, and the path to speaking (or writing) without unwittingly tossing out insults like candy (don't throw sushi, it's very messy) is a narrow one.

This is especially true when writing about something painful.  I try (but probably still fail) to be sure when I write I [attempt to] take that into account.

So, anyway. I just wanted to say, that if I have said something to offend you, such was not my intention.

Just sayin, y'all be careful with that thur 'Murican English, it's loaded!

I. Cotton candy streaks painting an indigo sky
Behind streetlights, sitting on a red sidewalk curb,
Next to paper bags of thrifted clothes
With your best friend
Outside a coffee shop
Her laugh on the ride home
Your favorite song on the radio
And she remembers the way back to your house
Without having to ask for your address

II. Eyes closed and
Your heart beating a little bit too fast while
You hope no one notices the way your hands are shaking
As you clench your fingertips down rosewood frets to 9 gauge strings
And pray you hit the right note
The drums behind you to the tap of your foot
Where you can feel the bass from beneath the floor
And the voices singing along
And you think to yourself
that maybe its not magic
But its the closest thing by far

III. Walking what feels like way too far to go to a grocery store
Because there’s nothing to do after school
With your friends
And your backpacks are too heavy and
The road stains your socks because your shoes hurt too much
believe me when I say a gas station sign can look like the gates to heaven
Safeway chicken tenders and boba over bio homework
Sitting on a metal table and waiting for the world to pass by
Or at least until you can drive