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Serving of Sloppy Jo, Burnsville, MN (2026)

03/09/2026

𝗟𝗲𝘁 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗪𝗼𝗿𝘀𝘁

You worry too much for somebody who’s,
figured it out each time before.
Like standing guard at a broken lock,
on a well-unbreakable door.

You pace through storms that haven’t come,
you map every crack in the sky.
As if the sun has ever once,
forgotten how to rise.

You stitched your courage back together,
on nights you swore you’d drown.
And every fear that swelled inside,
you slowly wore back down.

You’ve carried storms across your back,
that no one else could see.
And still you found your way somehow,
to calmer parts of sea.

You count the waves before they break,
prepare for every fall.
But every time the ground gave way,
you built another wall.

Or maybe not a wall at all,
maybe a bridge instead.
Because you’ve crossed each burning doubt,
that ever filled your head.

Breathe a little softer now,
let the worst thoughts drift away.
You worry like you’ve never won,
but you’ve survived every single day.

So maybe trust the proof you’ve lived,
the battles you’ve walked through.
The future isn’t half as strong,
as the version of you that grew.

Because every single “worst-case” thought,
you swore would be your end.
Met the quiet, stubborn truth;
𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗶𝗴𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝘁 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻.

You worry too much for somebody who’s,
figured it out each time before.
Like standing guard at a broken lock,
on a well-unbreakable door.🚪

03/08/2026

𝗜 𝗪𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗧𝗼

I want to be many things,
as my years unwind.
But mostly,
I want to be kind.

I want to be clever,
with bright little lines.
To laugh at the dark,
and make light out of times.

I want to be brave,
when the moment feels tough.
To stand in the storm,
when the winds get too rough.

I want to be patient,
when tempers run thin.
Though some days I sigh,
before patience walks in.

I want to be thoughtful,
a good listening ear.
The kind of safe harbor,
when storms gather near.

I want to be honest,
both gentle and true.
To mean what I say,
in the things that I do.

I want to be hopeful,
when days feel unkind.
To leave a little warmth,
in the paths left behind.

I want to be wiser,
or at least try to grow.
To learn from the places,
my ego didn’t know.

I want to be gentle,
someone who softens the fall.
Who notices quiet,
when others feel small.

I want to be humble,
while laughing at my pride.
Who knows they’ve been wrong,
and still grows inside.

I want to be helpful,
one who lifts when they can.
Who holds open doors,
for the next human hand.

I want to be many things,
as my years unwind.
but mostly,

I
want
to
be

𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱.🫰🏻

01/25/2026

We and Want.🔑

01/18/2026

Compassion And Change.🤟🏻

01/17/2026

𝗔 𝗖𝗼𝘀𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝗔𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗶𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲

They paint us in red, they tint us in blue,
Say pick a side like it’s all there is to choose.
We’re taught to see purple as something obscene,
A rainbow of division, distilled into green.

They sharpen the lines till the palette feels split,
Turn nuance to noise, then call shouting a fit.
We’re busy throwing shades, defending our hue,
Debating which color is morally true.

They lacquer red in fire, varnish blue in cold,
Each told that their pigment is worth more than gold.
But while we’re distracted by which shade is right,
The ledger keeps glowing, comfortably bright.

They say money blushes and cash really cares,
That’s color-blind comfort reclining upstairs.
No loyalty sworn to a flag or a team,
Just compound interest, staining every scene.

They brush red, white, and blue across America’s skin,
A cosmetic allegiance that never sinks in.
It looks like belief, it performs like a dream,
A patriotic gloss on a scripted routine.

They keep us in grayscale, thinking in twos,
Call it “difference,” dress it up as our views.
But the richest designs aren’t primary fights,
They’re blended perspectives and shared kinds of light.

They dazzle the surface with shimmer and shine,
Call contrast a war and confusion a line.
While eyes stay on pigments they’re trained to pursue,
The canvas gets pierced and the painter does too.

So maybe the trick isn’t red versus blue,
But noticing who benefits while we bicker the hue.
As we’re drenched in our pigments, divided and loud,
They sit bleached and untouched, removed from the crowd.

They paint us in red, they tint us in blue,
Say pick a side like it’s all there is to choose.
We’re taught to see purple as something obscene,
A rainbow of division, distilled into green.🇺🇸

01/10/2026

𝗟𝗶𝘃𝗲𝘀 𝗔𝗿𝗲𝗻’𝘁 𝗣𝗶𝗲𝗰𝗲𝘀

They bought up the board, every corner and square,
While most of us waited, still paying our share.
The dice kept on rolling, but chance felt untrue,
When outcomes were fixed long before they were due.

They traded in loopholes, in silence and speed,
Turned houses to numbers, turned shelter to greed.
While “Do Not Collect” rang loud in our chest,
They circled “Go” daily, untouched by the rest.

The commons grew thinner, the margins grew wide,
Each move felt prewritten, the cards pre-supplied.
You play by the rules, you work, you comply,
Yet still end the turn wondering when you fell by.

This isn’t a tantrum of tables upturned,
Or fire in streets from a lesson unlearned.
It’s a question that rises, both steady and plain:
When the rules stop serving, who’s still in the game?

Because order has value, and structure does too,
But systems should serve more than just the few.
If winning requires that others must lose,
Then fairness was never the rule we would choose.

So pause the play, not to flip, not to fight,
But to name what is wrong and demand what is right.
Because lives aren’t pieces, and homes aren’t a roll,
And paper wealth isn’t proof of a worthy soul.

This isn’t Monopoly, there’s no board to reset,
No single big flip that erases the mortgaged debt.
We’re not rolling railroads or buying up land,
We’re spinning for futures we barely command.

It’s not a board played to divide or confine,
It’s 𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘦 on the wheel, every road intertwined.
And no one’s success should be paid for in pain,
When the point of the game is that all get a lane.

But hope lives in the players who pause and agree,
That the game works best when it’s played fairly.
When Chance starts to mean what it says once again,
And “Community” isn’t a card, it’s the end.

They bought up the board, every corner and square,
While most of us waited, still paying our share.
The dice kept on rolling, but chance felt untrue,
When outcomes were fixed long before they were due.🎲

12/15/2025

𝗥𝗲𝗱 𝗥𝗶𝗯𝗯𝗼𝗻 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗣𝗶𝗻𝗲

Christmas is magical, quietly so,
In the hush of the snow and the soft candle glow.
It lives in the lights strung a little too tight,
Trying their best to make winter feel bright.

It’s songs in the kitchen, off-key but warm,
Old movies replayed like a seasonal norm.
It’s mugs filled with nostalgia, notes dusted with cheer,
The way love feels louder this time of year.

It’s memories wrapped in red ribbon and pine,
Traditions that echo through space and through time.
A sparkle that lingers, though no one explains,
Just something you feel in your heart and your veins.

Christmas magic is silent, yet deeply it stays,
In the pauses, the glances, the ordinary days.
It doesn’t ask questions or need to be seen,
It lives in all moments and ones in-between.

But Christmas has edges, it always has had.
It remembers the good, and it mourns what went bad.
It shines such a spotlight, so glittery, true,
On how things are now… and how we hoped they’d be too.

It counts who is missing, what shifted, what’s sore,
Which joys don’t fit easy, which ache a bit more.
And suddenly magic feels heavy, not bright,
Like smiling all day just to cry in the night.

The cost of the giving, the conflicts, the meals,
The lists, the receipts, the pressure to feel.
The rush of the shopping, the weight to keep pace,
Expectations wrapped tight while wearing a festive face.

That’s where the misery tiptoes inside,
Not loud, not dramatic, just there, by your side.
As quiet as longing, as real as the cheer,
As present as love this time of year.

So if you feel both when the season appears,
The wonder, the weight, the joy, and the tears.
This poem is yours, if the season feels strong.
The winter is holding what’s been there all along.

Christmas is magic… and misery too.
Both silent. Both felt. Both honest and true.
And it’s okay to let them coexist,
To find comfort and distress tangled in the mix.

Because Christmas was never meant to be one feeling.
Tinseled tenderness beneath a glass ceiling.
Magic can be miserable and misery can be magic.
Pretending not to feel both can make this season tragic.

Christmas is magical, quietly so,
In the hush of the snow and the soft candle glow.
It lives in the lights strung a little too tight,
Trying their best to make winter feel bright.🎄

11/30/2025

𝗔 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗦𝗹𝗲𝗱𝘀

I used to curse the snow, the freeze,
The boots, the scraping, aching knees.
I’d sigh at flakes like falling chores,
Then salt the steps and slam the doors.

The drafts that slipped beneath the sill,
The windows fogged, the endless chill.
I swore the storm made life a mess,
Just piles of coats and layered stress.

But still, it came with silent grace,
A hush that wrapped our little place.
One morning, mid-complaint and frown,
I stopped to watch it settle down.

No thunder. No demand. Just white,
A whisper soft enough to light.
And in that quiet, crisp and clear,
I felt a warmth inside appear.

A thought of sleds and frostbit toes,
Of cocoa cups and fire’s glow.
Of forts made from the kitchen chairs,
And socks that matched in cozy pairs.

A blizzard’s not a beast or thief,
It blankets walls with quiet relief.
It brings us close, it slows our pace,
It turns a house into a grace.

We gather ‘round, we bake, we read,
We tend to love, not just to need.
The outside howls, but in this dome,
The storm becomes what makes it home.

So let the snow come, let it stay,
Let warmth inside have room to play.
The blizzard, it seems, was never the foe,
Just the hearth in my heart I forgot I could know.

I used to curse the snow, the freeze,
The boots, the scraping, aching knees.
I’d sigh at flakes like falling chores,
Then salt the steps and slam the doors.🛷

10/11/2025

𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗘𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝗢𝗻𝗹𝘆

I felt the gold of the moment gleam,
like sunlight caught inside a dream.
I laughed, but somewhere in my chest,
an echo whispered, don’t forget.

For even joy begins to ache,
when hearts can feel what time will take.
Each second soft, each breath sincere,
a bloom already bound to clear.

The clock hums low, the shadows bend,
reminding all that moments end.
But endings only prove what’s true,
we grieve the glow we’re passing through.

I’ve watched the light shift on the wall,
the way it fades, yet blesses all.
It never stays, it never hides,
it simply moves to other skies.

So I will love this fleeting glow,
the way it stays, the way it goes.
For what is gone still lingers near,
I’ll hold it close while it’s still here.

I felt the gold of the moment gleam,
like sunlight caught inside a dream.
I laughed, but somewhere in my chest,
an echo whispered, don’t forget. 🪟

10/10/2025

𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗹𝗹 𝗦𝗲𝗲 𝗜𝘁 𝗦𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗲

Some days it beams from skies of blue,
in laughter loud, in morning dew.
It waves from doors we walk on by,
and twinkles softly in the sky.

Some days it hides, it plays a game,
behind the clouds, it feels the same.
But if you pause, and choose to stay,
you’ll spot its glow in shades of gray.

For good is shy, but never gone,
it hums beneath each weary yawn.
And when you seek with open heart,
you’ll see it shine in every part.

It hums within the morning brew,
in notes of songs that carry through.
In whispered words, in candles’ gleam,
in broken plans that birth a dream.

It peeks from tears that wash the ache,
from lessons learned through each heartbreak.
It grows through cracks the dark once made,
and turns each scar to golden shade.

So search the light when skies seem cold,
the smallest spark is still pure gold.
The good is there, in all life’s art,
just look a little with your heart.

Some days it beams from skies of blue,
in laughter loud, in morning dew.
It waves from doors we walk on by,
and twinkles softly in the sky.🌅

Serving of Sloppy Jo

03/09/2026

03/08/2026

01/25/2026

01/18/2026

01/17/2026

01/10/2026

12/15/2025

11/30/2025

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10/10/2025

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