Break Fast

My insides are made out of runny eggs. Churning, aborted ambitions that never took flight, and only succeed in weighing me down with a slab of bacon and burnt toast. Add a cup of coffee and I only get louder about how messy I am on the inside, not more focused or more satisfied.
I need to stop, need to breathe, but the toaster is bellowing smoke and I can't make the noise stop. I am on a fast from peace. I can't remember the last time I indulged in silence. There is nothing that can break me open and pour me out. I guess I'm not hungry enough to stop my internal, golden undulation.
This is your brain and this is a frying pan, and somewhere in between is a life on drugs. But I say, at least you've affirmed your own existence, even if it's coked-out, choked-up, pill-popping or heroin addicted.
Instead of empty.
Like an apartment with the stove left on, the toaster burning and the breakfast abandoned on the table. I'd take a frying pan to the head any day over a queasy stomach and nowhere to wrench my guts out. But the door is locked and the fire alarm is going off.
And I need to find a quiet place to break my fast and figure out how all my dreams got spoiled.

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