Proud Richard was blessed with a slick wick.
With Snapchat he’d click, click, and click.
But finally he learned,
After each spurn and spurn,
Ain’t no one be wantin’ poor Dick’s pic.

I examine my failures at home.
Just faux pas, for which I atone.
I see no success,
Yet smile; Acquiesce.
Familiar impostor syndrome.

“Philosophy,” cawed out the magpie,
“And selflessness, I claim to live by.
But in truth it’s for naught,
For my soul has been bought:
Without my silver, I would die.”

You have to hit the ball from where it lies. But you don’t need to use the same club. Or, if you think deeply about it, even a club at all.

Recoil.
Retreat.
Reflect.

Reframe? Reform? Reimagine?

Rebuild,
Rebound,
Rejoice!

She fights in the name of liberty,
Risking her personal security,
But fails to hypothesize
That groups need much compromise:
Freedom’s a lonely purity.