Growing Gray day by day

Back in the 1900's, my grandmother used to serve me breakfast in the morning. The pancakes were a golden burnt color, the eggs scrambled and the bacon crispy. I was a king in the small bungalo on Stansbury. Me, my Atari and the TV would spend hours together until my back would just give out. Once that took place I would sit on the porch with my Grandfather and mimic all of his motions and actions. We would watch the neighbors work on their cars, the kids downn the street sell their nickle bags of weed. We would occasionally peek at the desperate housewives down the street. It moved along so quickly, the days of old. Now I'm in the middle-aged portion of my life and I often find a strange barrier that separates me from the boy on the porch and the buisness professional behind the desk. No smart ass it isn't the gut. Pan up, zoom in and focus on these little gray pieces of wisdom growing on my dome.

Gray hair. Common for the family. In fact my grandfather had a full head of gray hair for as long as I can remember. It was salt and pepper for a while come to think of it, but as he grew closer to 70 + he became all grey quickly. And now, here I sit typing away and the gray hair just continues to grow and grow. The stress can't be the source of gray hair. The wisdom should be, but if that is the case I am certainly due for a few more. Despite my boastful thoughts, I am still rocking a tight taper with a back fade and the gray hair just adds to my overall sexy. Especially in my beard. You got it. Welcome to the 30something crowd. There is no turning back. and the grays...well lets just hope they slow down a tad.

Gone are the days in the dark, it seems we two must part.
waves of gray stimulate my day, while situations become works of art.
My temple grows old, rusty molds seem to invade every pore.
Yet my alter, my soul seems to still be in control yearning for days of ancient lore.
Criminals seem odd, children a blessing while arguments become tools of fools.
Leadership is grand and grays are bland in a field of negro wool.
I cultivate my lust, keep mobile eyes keen, but dream of leaving this scene.
But day by day, I am still this way and the time ticks with another instalment of gray.
No bling, this ring is still locked in my mind.
Make time, get active, grow old become a baptist. All seems like water under the bridge.
Yet older minds know the gray will grow, despite the troublesome times.

en peach