How can I talk about love when the bacon is burned and the house is an absolute mess and the children are screaming their heads off and I'm going to miss my bus? (idea)

I want to speak to you of love, I want to tell you of each dream that nestles my child-like mind. Too old to dream of stickball, to young to dream of eternity.

I feel urges, that are called natural. Emotions that real men hide. I want to engulf your soul with my heart. Touch you with the life flowing through my veins. As I reconcile burned bacon with hungry brothers and sisters. I take a fleeting moment to imagine you age 21.

The warmth of your face renders suns useless. The sound of your voice blocks out the screeching of the bus I'm missing. I need to talk of love, but I can't. Not while the children are screaming.

I clean up as fast as I can. There just isn't enough time. My soul is weak. I put thoughts of love, of love and you, aside. I renew my pact with the chaos of a white trash slum in Richmond Hill, Queens. Another day, perhaps, I'll talk of love. For now I must ready my home.