I’ll finish early to find that the world wasn’t ready.

There are places I want to be, but never alone, you see?

I want to do this and that and that again,

But I have to do that and this and this again.

Stability is a mystery at this stage;

It should be outlined on my degree.

“Passionate, but little guarantee.”

“Self-willed, but too soon to gauge.”

Sign me up!

Make me king.


Interlock Shock


My mind hasn’t gone down that road in quite a long time.

At first there was curiosity,

But then there was honest to God fear.

I’m on my own path as it is,

And it’s definitely the one I want to be on.
But there are times I recall the old road;

There is no interlock between these two nodes.

Sometimes I worry about its maintenance and care,

But something tells me these are thoughts I can’t share.

Lint of Crimson


I was in the moment;

Caught off guard.

You didn’t notice.

Hard is hard.


I saw my memory dance before me,

And it was glorious, let me tell you.

But it wasn’t like that,

And you bet I know it.


Sometimes my mind likes to add colors where they aren’t supposed to be.

I know too well that memory was golden grey.

As plain as could be,

But golden to me.


I deserved better than that;

Every color the eye can see.

Yes, we know that now,

With a new partner to be.


I see shades of fuchsia ingrained in my sockets;

Vibrant evergreens along my nerves;

Lint of hints of crimson within my old coat’s pockets.

But lint is lint;

Fleeting, is it not?

The memory came as sudden as the memory left.

No lint of crimson left to preserve.

Not when I deserve an endless palette of colors to explore.



Twenty-Five Stories


It hurts when you know it is so true;

That they are in the right.

You’re left questioning whether that leaves you in the wrong.

It’s not a battle of what he said versus what she said,

Nor is it one fought over with logic or seduction.

It’s one on brutal honesty of limitations and expectations.

There was nothing to gain from this,

But everything to lose.

The finish line looks more grotesque than the starting sprint.

Somebody tell me where the true victory lies.

And how can I reach it?

Resting Spot


Woah, that decision was quick,
Was it with haste?
Maybe one of those online quizzes,
Simplified results,
A little cut and paste.

But dang, that’s one hell of an ending.
It’s lacking in flavor,
Bordering on waste.
It hurts to think about it,
And even more when I sit and think of the memories I surely savor.

Surely whatever, we all grow tired.
There’s a looking glass that’s blurred.
I’m fearful it’s always been that way.
Maybe I closed my eyes to that truth.
It’s time for peace, all rest assured.