My One Outlet

Vessel of detail and determination.

Nestle into a quality state of quandary and cattywampus hesitation.

Hundreds of eyes and hands, they reach for me.

Thunders of calls and lightning strikes of emails and emails flash flood, I see.

Am I dying to self in order to serve with “pleasure” or am I killing me instead?

Cram and cringe and crunch a bunch of logic together another day when my face feels less red.