Tula Blue

This carpet is painful, especially on my knees. Hail Mary or two, maybe even three, depending on my grade in chemistry. Now summer upon us things have changed no longer in high school, my alum life remains.

  How do I navigate this social maze? It is like colorful banners for a blind man’s parade. At every corner, a twist in the road. At every bend, a story untold. I can keep your secret, I can shoulder your load.

  I left something for you, a bread crumb trail somewhat overrated with birds on my tail. If liking one person was not hard enough, try sharing your time with sleep, friends and stuff.

  295 at the bottom of the page, Tolstoy knew that my pride was under age. Life is sort of awkward like a three legged dog. My words kind of hobble, my thoughts kind of clogged. Like feeling the symptoms but not seeking a cure, always stopping myself for being unsure. Please, someone tell me that this is how it’s supposed to be. Why aren’t our names carved into life’s tree. Let’s give it some thought, let it meander for a while like a slow moving river in Twain’s southern style.

  Somehow, I think Tolstoy knew by the end of 295, the true color was blue. Oh don’t get me wrong, it is not a sad thing, it’s the vastness, it’s the depth, it’s the thickness of life’s wings. Blue like the ocean, blue like the sky, blue like your tongue after a fresh summer pie.