A cold, twittering sensation coursing through the stomach.
Eyes growing moist and eyelids snapping close,
Preventing the leakage of the tangible drops of self-disappointment.
Mistake after mistake; Regret after impulse
It is all the same. My chrome ball receives a slash


The chrome ball remains scarred.
Tarnish and gashes, dents and scratches,
The deep cuts shall forever linger, yet a polish is still attainable.
Tarnish replaced by a sleek shine overshadows many of the scratches, attempting to trick the Eyes
Upon first glance, the ball glitters;
Upon closer inspection, the ball remains damaged and scarred.
Appearance is crucial; constant polish is necessary


I am out of polish, I am tired.
Here I stand before the World. Here is who I am.
Weathered down by the Way of the World, my dents and gashes are apparent.
Weathered down by my daily mistakes, my tarnish and scratches are visible.
The People all shine their chrome ball, hoping to re-accomplish the perfect shine of their childhoods,
But the task is hopeless.

The perfect chrome ball does not exist