Newness

 I start off with a misnomer

I should have called it Oldness

I was supposed to write

Was I born to yield or fight?

And was I to express, to muse?

Or in the silence, I was bound to myself amuse!

I lounge by in sunshine

Counting my confetti poppers

Those need to be launched, to be released

To honor a life that can't be accounted

So to the oldness I bow

For letting me linger around a little more somehow

In a blink and miss matrix..

I was supposed to write

I wasn't supposed to yield, I was bound to fight

The flight of nothing I shun for now

And muse on a misnomer - like I mentioned above!

Newness is oldness with an identity crisis

I hope not!