a bubbling brook, sometimes quiet and soft,
a ravenous river, sometimes overflowing from unseasonably high rainfall.
Some failures shouldn't be conceived of as such I suppose,
some realities, less personal shortcoming,
more luck of the draw.
Deciphering self can be hard.
I lost my rose coloured glasses with the me setting.
Most of what I see now appears in black, white, and
impossible to distinguish shades of gray.
Things are easier this time I suppose.
But I still wonder in and out of each day,
questioning who I am,
and whether I've lived up to my (hopefully) good name.