The retardation of a sober thought process.

WARNING: The following is, once again, something that my brain does from a scattered artistic perspective. Please allow me to brain vomit some random words in a completely random sequential order in hopes that you might follow. No, I'm not drunk nor do I do any brain altering "vitamins".

Where can I start when "Why I'm at the finish line?" is almost a ridiculous question. I never got to finish something that was partially started. Running a walking marathon on a unicycle at half speed would only make me lose to a one-legged snail race. Wait wait, allow me the opportunity to properly express the true sentimental nonsensical ravings of a completely ridiculous thought process that could possibly end up causing a run away sentence from actually ever getting to the sharpened point that it was attempting to establish in the beginning before the end happened. Too late. These rantings require the finesse of an angry gorilla with roid rage. Ah, the words of a poet that never existed is only compared to that of an artist with no hands to paint with, spitting curse words at a blank canvas in hopes that his spit will spray color for a blind man to see. It's most unfortunate to have to deal with the retardation of a broken heart valve, when the solution could cause extreme paralysis. The sweet sound of a trumpet blazes across the landscape with the hopes of someday becoming the buzz kill at a peace treaty conference. The ideas and theories that were previously expressed have hence been forgotten and are gradually making their way back to the forefront. Back stepping over the gravel with quick witted broken feet will only cause the other shoe to fall and make the fine pin point accuracy of the dagger dig in at a speed in which is unmeasurable. Quite understandable you see, because from this vantage point one could hypothesize that outcome from a very astute angle, or obtuse angle, no matter how acute she may seem. Ah the addition of a math equation in the depths of hell can only unite the confused confusion of faces that once donned the peaceful eyes of an irreplaceable artifact from a past that refuses to be forgotten. Only now will you see the growing strength of a tree that had never been cut down, but only prevented from sprouting leaves. The hour glass is a time bomb that broke going backwards. Rewinding the tape is not friendly, I prefer to fast forward to the end where the Cinderella story line takes a turn for the likable. I refuse to believe that the choices made in the galaxy of sadness can be mistaken as a tomb for the guilt that once lived. Ah, the thoughts and questions have arisen and the time has come for all dumb children to stop behaving like morons and grow up. A swift punch to the back of the head always straightened the Common Sense Coach. I write, once again, to propose a toast to the moments that were forgotten, the times that haven't been seen, and the gift that has yet to be opened. I toast to the thoughts that have been remembered and hated, the discombobulated thought patterns that have justified such randomness, and the fantastical notoriety that the magician has gained from screwing the surgery up. Will someone please clean up the peanut butter that seems to be stuck inside my chest? Why was someone eating a sandwich during the open chest transplant? Once again, I sit and pretend to write something that makes complete nonsense, only to be witnessed to the ongoings of a brain that doesn't stop. I'll high five that fingerless gloves so that they don't feel lonely later.