I trip over the same rock repeatedly,
you’d think that I’d learn by now.
Instead I pick up the rock,
put it in my pocket, take it home,
allow it to lay in my bed,
tend to it,
feed it rock things (dirt or more rock buddies I guess?),
I paint it, I adorn it.
The rock and I are now closer than ever.
The rock is my struggle, my struggle is the rock.
My hands are empty and my eyes are sore,
I really don’t wish to be a rock for much longer.
From one stone to another.