The Jar of Expectations,
sits neatly sealed on a
high shelf in the fruit cellar
of an old house at the end
of a desolate dirt road,
defended by brambly
bushes, wild coyotes and
the rumor of a Witch.
Expectations, sealed away,
because having them too
close, or even open, is far
too tempting for my fragile
self-esteem to handle,
plus, I seem happier without
that jar, mocking me, making
a fool of me.
Wants, expectations, leading
towards disappointment,
should be avoided if possible,
and if that means putting them
in an old mason jar and hiding
them
away in a rundown, reclusive,
hidden away farmhouse,
then so be it.
Ambition however, that’s an
open can on the counter of
my own home, flowering brightly
with attainable dreams and the
can-do spirit of determination and
realistic possibility.
It was so easy to open too
and not cut myself on the sharp
lid.
Just a quick spoonful and…
wait a second…
This label… this label is wrong…
This is the wrong container…
This is…?
This is…
Expectations.
Damn generic labels.
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