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"BREAKFAST BOX CEREAL CLAIMS BREAKFAST MAKES YOU LOSE TEN POUNDS" by Sebastian

This is a poem/prose piece, that begins with a headline and follows with the story of a man who fears death.

Category: Poetry

Tags: prose, narrative poem, poetry, odd, death, God, humanity

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BREAKFAST BOX CEREAL CLAIMS

BREAKFAST MAKES YOU LOSE TEN POUNDS


Several times at night

A man lies awake, afraid.


his mind is WRECKED

HIS thoughts of death plague his sagging shoulders

he has not slept well these last few days.


His body is a phantom,

his eyes

drowsy, constantly

his lips work slowly, each word like a stick

of butter

melting.


His fear of death

could never

have been so wide, so abrupt.


See, for he was always afraid of death.

But such benign things lead to suicide

and even accidental lethal poisonings.


A painfully AWFUL

accident occurred recently.

Killed his younger brother.

Left him comatose, suffering. For several weeks.

Leaving the family worried, wondering


If half-awake Little Timmy could hear sounds.

If he was the same person, understand

if people could live up to soap-opera expectations?


But no! No. He wouldn't remember.

Brain scans of damage to head.

Showed major personality change implications.

Vegetable state was the only imminent

determinable conclusion.


Die or not to die? A man can only wonder

if that silent shell of a body still held his only

and dearest brother.


Timmy died two weeks after the terrible

prognosis.


The thought of sleeping now

has fractured—his confidence

He now aches for the absence of dreams.


Too many. Too many thoughts

run through his head.

Improbable conclusion,

emitted to the ER for possible fatal heart

rhythms,

PANIC-ATTACK diagnosis.

Restless nights and oxycodone addictions.

Illogical deductions

and unsolvable algebraic equations.


Sleep=coma=death=unknown


He would rather live in a world of nightmares.

The constant mumbling to himself,

rationalizing his fears, his new mantra

“Never sleep, never die,”

several times at night.


He fears God and only God,

and so he kneels at midnight

(Absolve my sins!) He cries!


Midnight, the clock strikes its final hour

Five more minutes, before he knows

what tomorrow brings unto him.


Four more minutes and he sits

he has strung himself to a chair naked,

Before the next nightmare. He writes

in a fragile, tattered book before night's end.


All the time.

A chronicle in case no one finds him in time.

He won't admit his consequences, but he knows,

he knows the end.


The poison will always be there.

Haunting him. He picks at his food,

never eating a single crumb.


No television, no books to read—only walls,

walls to become delirious with.


Occasionally, he holds a glass of water,

filtered by his own hand

and sips sometimes,

gulps,

sometimes,

chugs,

sometimes,

he breaks the glass

from shaking so bad—

with the nerves that wreck him,

they wring him of his sweat.


Last night, I heard him throwing down a few shots

of ginseng and ginkgo Bilbao,

the only vitamins he takes.

They never have failed him yet

at maintaining his absurd contradictions.


There are so many discarded bottles.


He runs naked every night.

so “I can feel alive,”

so “I can feel the cold night air.”

That's what he wrote,

that's what he screamed,

and hollered about for hours on end.



as He ran five blocks

and Gawd save him, no one cared

or gave a *****.

We all knew his plight,

his minutes to midnight

speech

was even leaving old man Brady restless.


The books say sleep makes you lose weight,

the books say sleep will lead you to recuperation

and we asked him,

pleaded with him,

wrote letters to his mother

to promise him breakfast. Breakfast so he won't grow

so grotesque.


If he would just sleep,

breakfast makes you lose ten pounds a week.

“Well, he's lost several already”, she said.


One night, 2am, in the old neighborhood

I saw him running,

or rather sluggishly jogging,

or rather walking briskly

in a bony, lanky way.


My hand nearly reached for a phone,

before I saw him give the bottle's

ether a plunge

down his throat.

The fluid gave him sparks of energy;


and now it's Sunday, eight days since his brother died.

He missed the funeral.


He lives next door, gawd bless his soul.

His bedroom is in my view.

His curtains are always down,

but the window is always open

and I'm tempted

when I hear him breath-less,

to listen to his heart beat, and make sure he's alive.


I pray on my own terms,

that he be sane,

He gives me a headache. He keeps me up now

lately

he complains now of chest pains,

lethargy: Loudly, non-stop, my hairs are prickly

with the goose flesh,

but he won't give up.


Last night, he was silent, his room was dark.

I came over to knock on him,

to check and say hello.

The police arrived with gurneys not too far behind

The paramedics came to find puddles of waste.

Every corner,

a mess.


One man asked me to come check,

his stony face,

his stony body, the man who was my neighbor.

The man with a pool of that foul stench of those B-Vitamins,

the green ginseng and green liquid, leftover from a shuddering,

restless heart, restless mind.

It was him alright and I cringed,

to see that sunken face

so sullen and afraid.


His emaciated hips

told of great anxiety,

his note book, full of scribbles

his bare feet

his prints

were embedded

into the spots where he paced

and paced

his regimen to keep awake

not die

And of all things. I think we knew to expect this.

He knew it too.


He was sitting naked, writing in his notebook,

staring

wide eyed

into space.

I was sure he was sleeping like that

before he went away.


Now, I'm not so sure

when I read the last words:


Thank you God. Thank you God.

Thank You God. Thank you oh LORD!

Thank you God. Thank you God....


Prologue:


It was always there.

His childhood is forever ruined

by visits to funeral homes,

vague religion, and

unanswered questions like,

“Will Spike go up to heaven?”


Himself, abandoned at the ages of seven

and fourteen. A foster brother

who turned to drugs and abused him.


He grew up normal. Despite all that.

But he grew fat,

slightly bald. And then the mid-life crises hit him.



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Category Name: My Thoughts

I didn’t care for this poem at all. It lacked originality, purpose, good word choice, or was otherwise uninteresting. This poem was okay. It would have been better if the poet had given the theme, word choice, or form more careful thought. This poem was great. The form and word choice seemed natural and added to the main idea the poet was putting across.

This section is for overall comments and general ideas. The score should reflect how much you enjoyed the poem.

Category Name: Theme / Subject Matter

The poet does little to make the theme or subject matter seem important to me. There are some cool things about the way the theme or subject matter is handled, but it could use more originality or clarity. The poem makes the subject matter new and exciting. Even if the subject matter is ordinary, the poet gives it a new angle.

Is the subject or theme poetry “worthy?” Is it original? Is the subject treated in such a way that makes it interesting, funny, creative, beautiful, surprising, enlightening or otherwise worthwhile? Ordinary subjects make for great poetry if they are treated in an original way, and great subjects make for bad poetry if they are just like every other poem written about it.

Category Name: Word Choice

The words chosen for this poem are dull, contrived, or hastily chosen. The words seem almost right, but there may be some wrenching or some words that don’t quite fit into the overall idea. The words choice is great. The words seem exactly right to convey the theme. They are beautifully or creatively chosen, surprising or exciting.

Poetry is language in its most concentrated form. More so than in any other type of literature, this requires the poet to carefully choose each word. Do the words chosen convey a specific intention, feeling or purpose? Do they feel deliberate but natural, or do the feel forced, awkward, or hasty?

Category Name: Form & Structure

This poem seemed spewed onto the page without any thought given to form of any kind. The poem has been thought out, but doesn’t quite fit the form or seems a little forced or unnatural in some places. The poem naturally conforms to the form, or the free verse takes meter, enjambment, etc. into consideration in an effective way.

Form is the defining structure of a genre or type. Does the poem follow a predefined form (sonnet, haiku, villanelle, ballad, etc)? If so, does it conform to the rules of the form (meter, rhyme, syllable count, etc)? If the poem does not follow a form, does it make sense not to? Is there something that differentiates the poem from prose?

Category Name: Mechanics

The poet seems to have taken little or no thought for the punctuation in this poem. The poet has some really interesting things going on with the punctuation or line length, but it could be more exciting or surprising, or it could be scaled back to be less distracting. The punctuation compliments and adds to the meaning of the poem’s words or theme. It is deliberate and well thought out.

Punctuation (or lack there of), line breaks, enjambment, capitalization, lineation, etc. Not everyone can be e.e. cummings and eschew all punctuation and convention of line, but poetry doesn’t always need to follow strict grammar rules either, as long as whatever punctuation is or is not used adds to the overall idea of the poem.

Inline comments are the most helpful and important aspects of your review.

Click on a paragraph or highlight text from the paragraph to provide inline comments. While detailed grammar correction is welcome, the purpose of inline commenting is to spark the author's creativity. This is best done by expressing feelings, questions, and concerns you have about the story while you are reading.

1. BREAKFAST BOX CEREAL CLAIMS

2. BREAKFAST MAKES YOU LOSE TEN POUNDS

3.

4. Several times at night

5. A man lies awake, afraid.

6.

7. his mind is WRECKED

8. HIS thoughts of death plague his sagging shoulders

9. he has not slept well these last few days.

10.

11. His body is a phantom,

12. his eyes

13. drowsy, constantly

14. his lips work slowly, each word like a stick

15. of butter

16. melting.

17.

18. His fear of death

19. could never

20. have been so wide, so abrupt.

21.

22. See, for he was always afraid of death.

23. But such benign things lead to suicide

24. and even accidental lethal poisonings.

25.

26. A painfully AWFUL

27. accident occurred recently.

28. Killed his younger brother.

29. Left him comatose, suffering. For several weeks.

30. Leaving the family worried, wondering

31.

32. If half-awake Little Timmy could hear sounds.

33. If he was the same person, understand

34. if people could live up to soap-opera expectations?

35.

36. But no! No. He wouldn't remember.

37. Brain scans of damage to head.

38. Showed major personality change implications.

39. Vegetable state was the only imminent

40. determinable conclusion.

41.

42. Die or not to die? A man can only wonder

43. if that silent shell of a body still held his only

44. and dearest brother.

45.

46. Timmy died two weeks after the terrible

47. prognosis.

48.

49. The thought of sleeping now

50. has fractured—his confidence

51. He now aches for the absence of dreams.

52.

53. Too many. Too many thoughts

54. run through his head.

55. Improbable conclusion,

56. emitted to the ER for possible fatal heart

57. rhythms,

58. PANIC-ATTACK diagnosis.

59. Restless nights and oxycodone addictions.

60. Illogical deductions

61. and unsolvable algebraic equations.

62.

63. Sleep=coma=death=unknown

64.

65. He would rather live in a world of nightmares.

66. The constant mumbling to himself,

67. rationalizing his fears, his new mantra

68. “Never sleep, never die,”

69. several times at night.

70.

71. He fears God and only God,

72. and so he kneels at midnight

73. (Absolve my sins!) He cries!

74.

75. Midnight, the clock strikes its final hour

76. Five more minutes, before he knows

77. what tomorrow brings unto him.

78.

79. Four more minutes and he sits

80. he has strung himself to a chair naked,

81. Before the next nightmare. He writes

82. in a fragile, tattered book before night's end.

83.

84. All the time.

85. A chronicle in case no one finds him in time.

86. He won't admit his consequences, but he knows,

87. he knows the end.

88.

89. The poison will always be there.

90. Haunting him. He picks at his food,

91. never eating a single crumb.

92.

93. No television, no books to read—only walls,

94. walls to become delirious with.

95.

96. Occasionally, he holds a glass of water,

97. filtered by his own hand

98. and sips sometimes,

99. gulps,

100. sometimes,

101. chugs,

102. sometimes,

103. he breaks the glass

104. from shaking so bad—

105. with the nerves that wreck him,

106. they wring him of his sweat.

107.

108. Last night, I heard him throwing down a few shots

109. of ginseng and ginkgo Bilbao,

110. the only vitamins he takes.

111. They never have failed him yet

112. at maintaining his absurd contradictions.

113.

114. There are so many discarded bottles.

115.

116. He runs naked every night.

117. so “I can feel alive,”

118. so “I can feel the cold night air.”

119. That's what he wrote,

120. that's what he screamed,

121. and hollered about for hours on end.

122.

123.

124. as He ran five blocks

125. and Gawd save him, no one cared

126. or gave a *****.

127. We all knew his plight,

128. his minutes to midnight

129. speech

130. was even leaving old man Brady restless.

131.

132. The books say sleep makes you lose weight,

133. the books say sleep will lead you to recuperation

134. and we asked him,

135. pleaded with him,

136. wrote letters to his mother

137. to promise him breakfast. Breakfast so he won't grow

138. so grotesque.

139.

140. If he would just sleep,

141. breakfast makes you lose ten pounds a week.

142. “Well, he's lost several already”, she said.

143.

144. One night, 2am, in the old neighborhood

145. I saw him running,

146. or rather sluggishly jogging,

147. or rather walking briskly

148. in a bony, lanky way.

149.

150. My hand nearly reached for a phone,

151. before I saw him give the bottle's

152. ether a plunge

153. down his throat.

154. The fluid gave him sparks of energy;

155.

156. and now it's Sunday, eight days since his brother died.

157. He missed the funeral.

158.

159. He lives next door, gawd bless his soul.

160. His bedroom is in my view.

161. His curtains are always down,

162. but the window is always open

163. and I'm tempted

164. when I hear him breath-less,

165. to listen to his heart beat, and make sure he's alive.

166.

167. I pray on my own terms,

168. that he be sane,

169. He gives me a headache. He keeps me up now

170. lately

171. he complains now of chest pains,

172. lethargy: Loudly, non-stop, my hairs are prickly

173. with the goose flesh,

174. but he won't give up.

175.

176. Last night, he was silent, his room was dark.

177. I came over to knock on him,

178. to check and say hello.

179. The police arrived with gurneys not too far behind

180. The paramedics came to find puddles of waste.

181. Every corner,

182. a mess.

183.

184. One man asked me to come check,

185. his stony face,

186. his stony body, the man who was my neighbor.

187. The man with a pool of that foul stench of those B-Vitamins,

188. the green ginseng and green liquid, leftover from a shuddering,

189. restless heart, restless mind.

190. It was him alright and I cringed,

191. to see that sunken face

192. so sullen and afraid.

193.

194. His emaciated hips

195. told of great anxiety,

196. his note book, full of scribbles

197. his bare feet

198. his prints

199. were embedded

200. into the spots where he paced

201. and paced

202. his regimen to keep awake

203. not die

204. And of all things. I think we knew to expect this.

205. He knew it too.

206.

207. He was sitting naked, writing in his notebook,

208. staring

209. wide eyed

210. into space.

211. I was sure he was sleeping like that

212. before he went away.

213.

214. Now, I'm not so sure

215. when I read the last words:

216.

217. Thank you God. Thank you God.

218. Thank You God. Thank you oh LORD!

219. Thank you God. Thank you God....

220.

221. Prologue:

222.

223. It was always there.

224. His childhood is forever ruined

225. by visits to funeral homes,

226. vague religion, and

227. unanswered questions like,

228. “Will Spike go up to heaven?”

229.

230. Himself, abandoned at the ages of seven

231. and fourteen. A foster brother

232. who turned to drugs and abused him.

233.

234. He grew up normal. Despite all that.

235. But he grew fat,

236. slightly bald. And then the mid-life crises hit him.

237.

238.

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