Pasta should be al dente
No too well done, but not too 
undercooked. 
And your words, should be 
Written as you feel them, 
No exaggeration, but no 
Hiding them, for self-
Conscious tendencies. 

Fish shouldn't be coated with
Cheese, 
Its flavor, alone, is good. 
And your body, is 
Worthy, with or without 
Life's dangerous accessories
And material consumerism, I 
Promise.

Meat, doesn't need any extravagant 
Sauce, just maybe, pepper, salt, and olive oil
And the night, doesn't long
For too much, aside from 
Flavors of friendships, a pinch of
Insanity, and a drizzle of love.

When baking, you do not need 
Too much sugar, just 
Nonna's recipe for that cake.
And when living, you do not
Need too much ambition, 
Just remember where you 
Came from. 

And if all this results in
A frustrated mess in the kitchen, 
Remember that organization was
Never an Italian's strong suit. 

"Remember" she says, 
Remember to wash your dirty clothes
And your dirty thoughts, and your
Sinful body. 

"Remember" she says, 
That the bright light will 
Keep you from seeing sometimes, 
And though you cannot see beyond, 
That does not mean that you will 
never see again .

"Remember" he says, 
You are an object, a mere
Torn blanket from my past
That I will call for warmth should
I find myself in need. 

"Remember" he says, 
To come back to me,
Despite my maltreatment of
Your worth. 

"Remember" she says, 
I am so lost, please help 
Me find my way, as we are
All not so fortunate to live in 
Present, like you. 

"Remember" I say, 
I have no where to turn,
So I picture the pews I once
Rested my knees upon, and 
I fall victim in my bed, in the middle
Of the hopeless night, and I 
Pray again, like when I was 
naive, and believed in you more,
And I ask you once more, 
Please restore me, because 
I have given my strength to 
​The others. 

Few addictions in my life have proved healthy for my sanity. Yet, here I stand, ready to give it up, and declare the unworthy addictions a throne of malicious power over my life. My mind races, in the evening, raising memorized images of pages graced with the right words. The words, so effortlessly placed upon the page by my predecessors, by those who have achieved and won the race I've been running for quite awhile now. Yet instead of digesting into my system, the words declare war on me, tormenting my brain and fashioning themselves into dirty mistresses, cheating on each other and spitting in my face. They say I'll never become them. They say the competition is fruitless. They say all my life has been a competition, and alas, that is all it will ever amount to, albeit I will never win. 

I have forgotten, it seems, how to declare a statement onto a page. After the analysis of life has produced a decent amount of prose in my mind, on the drive home from one of life's adventures, I have tried to translate the waves of words from brain to finger, from finger to pen or keyboard. It proves futile. I am hopeless. 

Bury me alive if I no longer can write. Bury me in my sorrows. Bury me in my misadventures. I will dig my own grave if I cannot relapse. I am no longer lost in my thoughts, my thoughts are lost in me. I am going to burn in the flames of a lost dream.