When your plans or your hands turn to dust. When you knock down a door with a thrust. An object of lust, impolite to discuss, This place to hang pearls when men. . .

I’m toe-tally elusive, a sole survivor, they say. I leave big impressions, then sneakily walk away. Caught blurry on cam, I ghost the frame, yet folks still chase my giant name.

I’m rational, and out of all the things that we are, the one before me is scared of me for what I ate.

To the superstitious, I'm worse than a shot of caffeine, But stop by a generous bakery and you might find luck unforeseen. I’ve deleted entire floors with my ominous sheen, Yet I'm just a number - what do YOU think I mean?

feeling disengaged or restless at best, this feeling can be hard to address. I come from no medium, no phone or external media, and my head is to full to decompress. I sit and write clues, to try and amuse, to beat out this feeling of dread.