I am afraid to end this poem
The year comes to a close too shortly
   I fear it is an ominous omen
That I will sparsely remember fondly.

I have been alive nearly two decades,
           And in 2020,  I turn 19:
     To find myself wandering Cascades
Pondering to see what I glean.

But I foolishly plead to have this be my year, our year.
   Not a year of the pig but a year of the horse’s glory.
                That we shall premier or fear to be sincere.
          This is our story to be told in our oratory.

This is my final year, my undying year,
  My undying fear, felt itself tense up,
When they demanded I take a career
In speculating the woes of grown ups

I deride my festooning derision
                On the chains of Putin and the Zuck,
  And they have not swayed my sick decision
To reminisce on our gnarly luck,

   Because I find that Spongebob Squarepants taught
  values of persistent positivity.
      To blow bubbles at an askance onslaught,
Grit buck teeth in the maw of adversity.

          I watched a nostalgic minecraft parody.
      A three part series about maturity.
       It powerfully displayed our legacy.
       Captainsparklez made it for our posterity.

   I planted my last tomato seeds
   In the brackish mounds of my garden,
         To return aged with a great many deeds,
    With cash for the deed to my Tarpan steed.

           I hope four years don’t saddle me with debt
     Or wandering an infernal Lethe
        With a briquette of burning, licking sweat
  Tied to me, it exhausts me of slipping breath
I hope that I may make my living death

          towards the hopes I lay my head to rest:
January 1st, may this year be blessed.

Barefoot
Sand hot, searing white,
like my skin,
which had been kissed by a fierce
fiery sun
that mistook me for his lover.
It was my choice,
not to join the herd,
to chase a quarter mile
at crescendo speeds.
I already knew what it was like
to race the wind,
to pretend I was lightning,
no more than a fleeting flash,
bliss - and then, silence.
I chose the shamanic path,
removing the leather,
letting go of the binding ties,
and the reins,
setting them beside conch shells
that sheltered my keys
and my tether.
Fists full of mane,
thighs wrapped around
the wild grace of Tarpan Luck,
in velvet waters,
sparkling turquoise,
*******, unbridled
soul claiming Amphitrite,
harnessing currents, breaking tides,
even the sun bowed low,
as I gilded the foam.
I echoed the gulls
far outstretched wings,
singing to the envious saline atmosphere,
I. am. free.