Thirty Year Old Lead

So in standing as a part of me, as much as the pencil tip still in my palm sharp broken under fluorescent white rooms in a pod in 3rd grade, I wish to know promises beyond good intentions for this pain is carried right under translucent skin, where you can still see it if I stretch out just right. Intentions break as cooling glass quite often simply from being handled improperly After all, they are merely fancy, dressed up thoughts cotton candy whipped and twirled 'round grains of perhaps a long lost truth or something you once heard like shapes of poisonous leafs, or the slanting eyes of a poisonous snake These polished truths, ground down to where there is standing room only (in the recesses of your brain) are thereby pulled up to be tossed, candy coated and served up as full blown intentions So, intentions, as well "intentioned" as they are, can have bits of poisonous fact at their core, perhaps even pain to be broken off in palms who winced at the shock of adoration betrayal. Carrying the skin, as we do, it's our ultimate job to protect it and to limit the lodging of foreign items (candy coated or not) to a minimum, whether they be lead or whether they be the kind of motivated intention that may or may not ever be. It's with this request that I step back to watch the cogs of determination sift truths in blackened brain vaults, pulling out every file 'till you find the one marked: "ME". I watch you strip the non-essentials, having eaten the whipped up sweets almost to the point of intention sickness, bits of non-essential trivia still glistening in your smile, while you step into the character I love most, a man of promise, worthy of removing thirty year old lead from my open palm.