Bash (an acrostic poem)

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Beating up on the game controller

As he hit all the buttons to try to win the game

Sometimes it worked, but most of the time he lost

However, it didn’t make a difference.  He still had fun

Prototype (an acrostic poem)

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Putting together yet another try was one of the most satisfying things he did

Reaching down he snapped in the last fitting and took a breath, ready to see if it worked

Of course, building all these iterations was also one of the worst things he could do

They reminded him of the numerous failures he didn’t plan for, that he was a bad engineer

Only he knew there was almost zero chance that the first one would work out of the box

That was the stuff of myths, legends, and dumb luck

Yearning to know if this was the one, he flipped the on switch

Prepared for sparks to fly and flames to claim one more attempt

Except this time it didn’t burn.  It still didn’t work, but that was still progress?

Hubris (an acrostic poem)

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He thought he knew exactly what to do

Until he found out the hardware wouldn’t work

Being too smart for his own good he whipped up something new

Realizing that was a wasted four hours because he had just simply wired the original backwards

It had worked all the time if he had just opened his eyes and slowed down

So much for a calm Sunday

Document (an acrostic poem)

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Didn’t read the fine print of the contract

Of course that’s how a lot of these stories start

Catch 22’s galore in the legalese that no one can decipher

Unless you are a lawyer, and even then you have to be speak a dialect of Parseltongue

Making the rest of the tale about maneuvering out of the inevitable

Enabling our hero to have the last laugh

Now only if that worked in real life

Then I would be so done with these student loans

Sprint (an acrostic poem)

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Scurrying thoughts running crazy inside his head

Put him on his mental treadmill, trying to exercise them away

Reaching an exhaustion level that would allow him to fall unconscious

It sometimes worked, but tonight the ideas and thoughts were too fast

Not that he gave up dashing after them, but waking hours passed slowly

That’s what made the alarm the next morning such a rude starting pistol for the new day