Solaccolade

Don’t ask me to confess my deeds. They’re mine.
Admission means to let another in,
An expectation truly asinine,
Like athletes sharing credit for a win.
Whose legs could those have been, if not my own?
Whose breast thrust forth to break the waiting tape?
The runner claims the victory alone;
Round one neck only does the medal drape.
They mouth the well-rehearsed “my team” cliches,
But in the end the credit and the blame
Are property of they who claim the praise
As cosigned by the crowds who praise the claim.
So long as I’m the only one aware
Of what I’ve done, I won’t be asked to share.

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How Can You Have Any Pudding?

I like food. I really do.
If you’re the next guy, I’m like you;
We have a similar degree
Of foodie in us, you and me.
That being said, I struggle when
Deciding what my mouth wants in.
No matter that I’m feeling hollow,
Choosing what I want to swallow
Is, for me, a task too far
On most occasions. It’s bizarre,
I know, but if the choice is choosing
Or, well, not, then I’m refusing.
Yes, I’m hungry. Doesn’t matter.
On the plus side, getting fatter
Isn’t what I stress about.
I don’t eat junk, I go without.
Neither’s healthy; both are bad
In different ways, but when I’ve had
To act or just get off the pot,
More often I’ve got off than not.
Which is why, at 9:02,
I haven’t eaten yet. Have you?

The Holly Can Wait

Plants don’t often scream for water;
Most go quiet when it’s hotter
And the ones that want to yell
Have throats so dry it’s hard to tell.
Too much water makes them drown,
While not enough might turn them brown
And brittle as their wispy voices.
Hoist your hose and make your choices.