They ordered velocity at the top of the list,
Pure speed the most high of achievements.
She was young, a famed prodigy
But her talents were no longer relevant
When her limbs lengthened
And her skin began to lose definition
For who wants anyone ordinary?
If only you can race to the goalpost,
swing your flag, and keep running
Quick, quick, because time
And other’s disappointment
Is chasing at your feet.
But when that day finally comes
Where you can no longer continue

At that break-neck speed,
And people cease
To acknowledge your feats,
Will there be anything left
In you to keep striving?
Or have you burned out too quickly?

Silence comes in so many shades--
Those of blue things unsaid,
or honeyed marigold,
Dancing around our heads.
There is the umber of dark,
of hearing nothing,
Yet sensing eyes in the smog
--and the sterile white,
of trepid understanding.
I value silence above all things.
Because, in it, one voice speaks
He reaches out, quelling the shades
To one of a deep pink,
An affection so rich,
That words cannot begin to express
how it fills him.
So, he shows it through silence.

She never met his eyes.
it was not intentional,
yet she knew it was not right.
Perhaps she was afraid
That once he saw the trellis
To her mind, he would climb inside
And realize she was a fraud.

Inspiration overflows
The edges of a lephrechaun’s
*** of gold. And it vanishes
As frequently, as does
The end of a rainbow.

[Impatience. Uncertainty.
How do you know when it's done drying?]

I could smell the asphalt
As the road was paved,
A perfect rendition
Of all I hoped to achieve.
Did I step too early,
Making indents,
That could not be removed?
Did I stand by, as a storm
Passed through, and
Knocked over trees
Onto the drying ground?
Or was I the storm,
taking chainsaws
To the cypress trunks,
Muddying the path
I had anxiously anticipated?
And was it that very nervousness
That made me finish
Before I had even started?

My eyes were deep holes,
Poring into him,
Mouth sluggish as it
Searched for the words;
But they were malformed,
They were broken limbs,
Unable to be righted
So, i pulled out a pen
And placed the paper
in his hands. Read this.

I spoke slow, measured
Because written word
Was yet to fail me
Compared to the treachery
Of my weighted tongue

When we look at the formative years
Of our lives, in docile innocence,
We see so many faults—
Things we must fix, or else
We risk living our whole lives
on repeat. Is it too hard to think,
That sometimes, we change
Too much, and end up so far
From any semblance of good,
That we are worse than before,
As we were in our youth?