That was it,
my greatest fear,
bringing my greatest tear,
a old man unable to keep his hands still,
there is no cure, no pill,
to make it stop,
he stood there unable to stop the shaking,
unable to to be the one faking,
its getting worse and I can feel it,
I can see not being able to write a little bit,
and I am terrified.
My future standing in front of me,
like seeing an island when out to sea,
I know I will get there,
so I keep my hopes up and down I stare,
at the man who can't stop or grip a pen,
there is a now and always a then,
and my fate of being unable to do,
wishing to stop and feel new,
but I have to accept,
I'll be that old man too

Today is a rather nice July afternoon in the Sierra Foothills.

Most occurrences
are innocuous enough
to provide a sort-of
false sense of security
such that,
when those other occurrences;
those, which send forth poison daggers
into the hearts of the otherwise Joyous;
rend in twain the velvet fabric of Comfort.

Take heed that the fleeting Comfort
doth indeed not lead to arrogance and entitlement;
for everything is permitted
on some fundamental level;
nothing is granted
in this Life.

Respect what you get
Respect what you lose
Respect what is
Respect what was
Respect what will be

Impulse is one hell of a drug.

Of the two kinds of people, being:
those who walk in the Rain
and those who simply get wet,
which will you chose to be?