What if the heart
Were truly a puzzle?
A game of sorts
Of luck
Of chance
Roll the dice and pray
That you draw a piece that fits.
The empty hole there
To remain empty,
Until you draw the right piece.
Who could be good
At such a game?
The rich, the beautiful?
Though it may appear so,
This thought is false
The game IS fair.
In a twisted way,
All have an equal shot
For 1 in 7 billion is the chance
Of finding any single piece.
And I...
I drew the 1
That fits my heart.

You know that feeling when time freezes
You're hand starts to shake a little
You can't help smiling when you know for a fact how stupid you look
They're the only thought on your mind first thing in the morning and last at night

Age eighteen, living life as a low-middle class suburban jobless fool with a confusing relationship and a five year old boy. I have nerve damage to my left arm, smokers cough and lesser (haha) alcoholism.     I guess it's macaroni (not Kraft, way too expensive) and cheese (nothing fancy) tonight. I should apply for a new job tomorrow, but I'll probably have something else to do. Besides that, I have no clothes suitable for an interview anyway. My hair is a wild mess. From behind you might think, "****, she doesn't have an ***..."
...but from straight on, you might think, "****, he looks like Slash."
I do not look like Slash, by the way. At least I think not. Maybe with the right hat, but then, I am way too short. I can sing like Slash, though.
I learned to use my voice like, five years ago. How old was I...?
I can read like Joseph Ogle. I love reading. I must have been younger when I started reading good material. Must have been a good few years ago...
I can draw like Dali. I think I found him out in Middle School...
I can play piano like ******* Mozart. I picked up piano earlier...
I can write like...
...well, writing is so unique that comparing myslef to anyone is insulting to both.  
Anyway, it's my raw talent, skills that I have owned and honed that drives me to be more.
They say you have to deal with the hand life gave you, but life decided to give me dice, and a couple chance rolls. I may still have a few left. For as long as I live, I will deny and refute the notion that once you lose everything, you should just give up. I have lost. You can talk to me all day about how sad your life is, and how depressed you are, but unless you do something to change your quality of existence, then you're going to roll snake eyes. Snakes bite, friend.
I got a lucky thirteen on my plate. I am content to keep, but I could keep going.
What do you have?

Do you realize how lucky you are?
You two have your problems
But you fit together
Like what one is lacking is made up by the other
Some force their love like mismatched puzzle pieces
But you are lucky
You fit

I spoke to a woman
Who had knocked on death's door,
Reminding me not to take
Walking for granted anymore.
I love a run in nature,
Zipping by the trees.
Scaring away the lizards;
No discomfort in my knees.
My very own mother herself
Has looked death in the eye;
What other lessons can I learn
Through life, the more I cry?

When I say everything is crashing to pieces,
Falling apart before my very unadulterated eyes,
I don't mean it as a metaphor.
No. I mean things are literally breaking to bits.

When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
With every step I take across this suspension bridge, I can feel the ground give way to my weight and endlessly tumble and twist toward its impending demise to the unsuspecting ground below. (Albeit, it has yet to have trouble with the racing automobiles wizzing past me with a taunting doppler)

When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
I have the Midas touch.
Only, when things come in brief contact with my fare skin, they need not turn into gold but rather chaos.

When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
With every flip of the switch comes an explosion of glass bits and fiery yellow sparks shooting awry (give my thanks to the short fuse)

When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
I attempt to live out my usual ordinary uneventful lifestyle, and I leave a wake of destruction in my route to the corner store! (Remind me to apologize to the florist- I'll have to get him some newly birthed petunias)

When I say everything is crahsing to pieces, I mean
I fear cutting onions lest the knife get fed up with being dulled by various vegitables and find its way to my throat, holding me hostage in the kitchen via blade tip to jugular

When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
I would be far from surprised if the monsters under the bed had a mutiny and overthrew their sane captain who keeps them from overturning my mattress every night, bless him

When I say everything is crashing to pieces,
Falling apart before my very mundane eyes, I don't mean it figuratively.
No. Things are literally breaking into tiny wooden splinters.
But don't you for a second dilute your mind into thinking this bothers me in any way.
I've learned to just let the pieces fall where they may

The other day
I thought to myself
Maybe I am over you
Maybe I am holding on
To feelings that are no longer
Growing on their own

Today
I saw a picture
Of you and a woman
More well-known
Than you could ever dream of being

A week from now
She won't remember you
What you look like
What your voice sounds like
And she doesn't realize
Just how lucky she was
To even learn that today

In a few months
I will see you again
And I can do nothing
But hope
That you will touch me
In a way
That you will never touch her