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.

Start of the Day


Who is there at the start of the day?
It’s not that I don’t care who is present at the end,
But both truly matter to me.

If I’m scared,
Come and hold me.
If I’m tired,
Let me rest.
If I’m snappy,
Come and trim me; tell me that I’m incorrect.

It’s always hard to remember that other people have busy lives and important ties.
Not everyone can come at the drop of a hat.
I respect those that remind me of that.
But those that leave me guessing,
Well, you’ll see that I went offline in the midst of our chat.

Be there when you can,
Let me know when you can’t.
It’s okay, we’re adults.
I’m not trying to hurdle insults.



I put them in my shoes.
They’re looking back at me,
Afraid and confused.
You see,
I’m holding the bomb,
They’re trying to diffuse.
I hold the key,
And I know they want me to lose.

You won’t grasp it,
Until it confronts you.
Maybe you’d understand,
And maybe you’d cry too.

But the scenarios don’t change.
We don’t swap for what’s best.
We remain who we are,
Never pondering what we’re not.

This is me,
They are they.
I won’t go out to play today,
Or tomorrow or the day after,
Because they transposed fear out of my laughter.

Hollowed Oak


I can see through his hollowed-out oak.
It hid under Mystery and Suspense’s cloak.
Dabbled in longing,
Suffocating in chance.
This tug-of-war thread took is toll on this old oak.
I can see the ringlets along the bark.
Peek inside;
I told you it was dark.