Hey. I've never had a boyfriend, so I guess I can't give you real advice. But I do know that you should not run away. Don't become a shell of yourself. Don't think the world has ended, because it hasn't. Don't become depressed.

Give yourself time for your heart to patch up. I'm not saying you'll be the same after it. But you'll be better. Better is, well, better. Drink some tea. Write out your feelings. Hang out with friends. Read a super good book.

Friends help a lot. If you claim you don't have "good" friends, try and make some. They are a shoulder to cry on, and are there for you.

Be positive. As I said before, the world has not ended.

There you are.

Advice from a girl who's never had a boyfriend.

Go to college to learn

surgery, neurology,

law, medicine,

finance, teaching, and so forth.

Technical arts, maybe.

Those who truly make it

or have made it

on any level

with writing prose

or fiction

or poems

or contemporary literature

will do it out of a mixture of stubbornness, compulsion, and fire.

Past an understanding of English, school was

an arduous nightmare for me.

Pulled from the system(s)

by sudden parental death,

school was a logical waste

for me at grade 11

employment eclipsed

education

because the streets were

even worse than

the classrooms

so I worked shit

jobs

a dropout with a dream

I read voraciously

and wrote like

a madman

and after two decades

of being out in the wind

or in cars or old vans

or in apartments

or rented rooms

or shit monthly

and weekly

hotels across the country

the hard work paid off

the hard work at home

after the job had eaten my

flesh for 10 hours

but the jobs fed

the pages

and right now the rain

falls in California

and the steak and eggs

are over-easy

and rare just like

I like them cooked

and even though I'm

in a diner on my

phone

and not crazy

about this poem

I didn't write it

to be anti-education

or pro-anything

this poem

is

cautionary.

For some people, they are on Prose. because they are escaping. From the real world, from bad times, or maybe even depression.

But I am on Prose. not because I am escaping, but I am entering. When I am writing, I enter the gates of imagination. Prose. has many paths of imagination that you can follow after you enter the gates, and I think that is why I love Prose. so much. The possibilities are endless, but you do not have to think it all up yourself; there are challenges to inspire you.

Thank you Prose.!

Keep on writing!

-StellarBee

Wake up.

(At four in the morning.

And can't fall back to sleep).

Get out of bed.

Trip.

Bonk your head.

Dizzily get up again.

Step on a Lego.

Scowl.

Try to go upstairs.

Halfway up, trip again and fall down.

Scowl more.

Finally make it up the stairs to find your work uniform wrinkled and teared to shreds on the floor.

Curse at your dog.

Put on some different clothes, hoping your boss will not mind.

Make coffee.

Realize you are out of cream.

Curse again.

Choke down the bitter coffee.

Spill some down the front of your shirt.

Want to change again, but will be late for work.

Go outside, and find it dumping buckets on you.

Get into car, all wet.

Realize you are out of gas.

You forgot to get gas yesterday.

Reach for your phone.

Find it dead.

Go back into house, soaking wet.

Look for charger.

No luck.

Curse for the third time.

Dog jumps on you.

Licks your face.

Gets dog hair all over you.

Now you smell of wet dog.

You decide to walk to work.

Thirty minutes later, you get there.

Boss yells at you.

Fires you.

You shout back, saying that it is unfair that after one day of being late you get laid off.

Boss sneers at you.

You walk home again.

Get there in another thirty minutes.

Find you left the door open.

Now the first part of your house is all wet.

You find the dog biting the mailman.

You go and grab the dog.

The mailman swears at you.

Says he'll sue you.

Leaves.

You find your mail in a puddle.

The letters are unreadable.

Now it's your turn to swear.

You put the dog inside.

Go back downstairs with a fresh mug of coffee.

Step on the same lego.

Try to kick it across the room.

Jam your toe in door instead.

Change clothes.

Get into bed.

Accidentally spill coffee.

Change clothes again.

Wet dog gets into bed with you.

Change clothes AGAIN.

Attempt to push dog off bed.

Dog gets you wet instead.

You don't have anymore clean clothes.

You fall asleep the rest of the day.

Hope that tomorrow will be better.

A mask divided

into quadrants

and halves

stories recorded

against heart beats

demonic skies

that echo the moon

eyes pierced by

smoking needles

Desire, dominance,

spreading across time

Set the clock back

and everything's fine

But the child with

icy veins

and a fiery mind

with glowing ambition

in the darkest night

that, wild mind

that visage of many climes,

furtively rising like a winter sun

sure to come

You can run

your speed checked against

the watch,

the moon,

the heart,

the waves..

But the kid prays

for her future days

While he rises

cold flesh kissed by sun rays

Four quadrants, a mask

two halves against black

Serve up a salad of laughs.

Spray tomato sauce all over the build-a-bear man because he said so.

Run fast over a slippery surface and shout "purple cranes".

Spill coffee on your brand new pant legs and cheer with great joy. Pick up a stack of papers and make them into a house for a family of frogs.

Tickle a frat boy, jump over a bongo drum, listen to a Larry, overturn a lamp post for no other reason other than you feel like doing it and life is short, your last breathe could come at any moment and if it was not filled with fun than what was life lived for.

To be a rock trapped amongst a sea of diamonds

so shiny, so pretty, so blinding

Lacking a substance of their own

they have only the ability to reflect

I may only be a rock, but while amongst them

they reflect me