Gauging

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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.

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Interlock Shock

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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

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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.

 

 

Resting Spot

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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

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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.

For Ruben

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Sometimes we feel like a baked potato;
Out for too long,
Overly or underly dressed,
Feeling like a hot mess.

Other days we’re the wrongfully-hyped and entirely-saturated lump of mash potatoes.
Smooth and creamy,
Maybe lacking in depth,
But good enough to call satisfying.

On our best days we’re those gold and crispy fries,
That others want by the handful.
Some may call us rather too salty,
Others may say that we’re too greasy.
But, all in all, we’ve reached the peak of the moutain;
The top of the ladder.

Yet, nothing could make me sadder.
Let me be a hot mess if I want to,
A bitter lump if need be,
But never cage me into one category,
One characteristic,
And surely never the basis of one word.
I am from the earth,
And I am interchangeable.
This is why I am so relatable.