Only, now at the age of 29 ; do I look back and see all the misguided anger, the hurried rush  ; the hedge against the emptiness. The follies , which bloomed with the rage of summers. My hair, slowly pushing out, age filling the cracks of all my mishaps , my miscaulcations, my dreams, my castles in the sky, so to speak, the musguided steps , the overlooked. Ah, indeed the overlooked. If failure was a noun, it would (come before, eh..pre-something) my name. But, what the fire doesnt burn, it hardens. (props to O.W: some whitey  authors are okay; a brown boy growing up in America and pretty much being North American still is opposed to the brain-washing numbing quality of American literature and how they teach all things religious, historic, spiritual, and literary; being drowned out in the loudest of voices. But, I was an angry boy. Its a good thing I never really let it express out in terms of words or language directed at another. No like a chemistry set, I kept the beaker boiling high, my hands trembling to hold even a pair of tongs momentarily still. But, I am sure I passed up many pretty dames, much of which would never see me now, alas, with all the wild forests of my hair being mowed down, near extinct, the last of the locks stand. As I prepare one more battle, with general alfalfa and lieutenants mustard & turmeric, as well sublieutenants  spinach, pineapple, oats, and pepper. We may never see the end of this tunnel. This is a losing battle. Fighting for the sake of the body or these senses is a inevitable slippery slope down. You cannot fight this pull ; the gravity of this situation, is most difficult to humor ourselves out of.

Reading Dorian Gray ..
Oscar Wilde's only novel.
There are some good sentences in there (well phrases).
Part of the context, You Know.

My english was par, but my ideas flowing through were par-par-above-par.
What we cannot express, never dies, it takes rebirth.