My gravity battle, is a fight of mine,
As my balance, begins it's small decline.
The legs are wobbly and muscles entwine,
As I try walking on surfaces incline,
And end up horizontal and quite supine.

The life we led is with us still,
Encumbered by much angst and ill will.
What do we do, at this point in time,
Is pour a glass of red or white wine.

Some say it is a talent that I've got.
Others might say my talent is naught.
Full of flaws, that are open to see
Except the love for my family.

Why must the sky be blue,
When blue is such a sad color?
When I think of you
My soul turns blue,
But when I see your face
Or hear your voice,
I may then rejoice
And feel another color.
Yellow is nice; warm and mellow,
But may not attract a fellow.
So, get yourself back down
For your eyes of brown.
If your face turns red
From embarrassment
Or things you've said.
It's kind of nuts
To think of ruts,
That is, in words,
Stuck in our head.