Slow Your Pace!

Slow your pace! Slow your pace!
You silly mess, relax your face,
the physics of which is strained and stressed.
You've clearly got Young's Modulus going crazy --
freckles flying --
pop! pop!
Relax or go plain, you spotted giraffe
of the human terrain!

Epidermis disturbed,
your freckles scream out in ways absurd.
Abstract constellations, they exclaim,
"Bring peace! Bring control,
yet we love all this commotion..."
You're a Brownian motion of swirling intensity --
your random propensity
doesn't make sense to me
but then again, who ever said
you were supposed to be
logical or obvious?
You orange-haired girl,
you're completely oblivious.

You've got
(1...) (2...) (3...)
three states! Three!
Plus, minus, nil!
You on/off/neutral, base-10 babe,
you're three dimensions strong
in any given moment.
You're a curve to observe,
pulled in every last direction by your gravity, serenity,
so many other forces that you only balance out
to nothing less than nil
but there's something there, still,
that was really worth producing.
It was really worth saying,
though it's more than indescribable
and presently absent,
for it vanished again as I tried to take it in!
If you were here, I think you'd say,
"Poof,
it's gone!"
but you've already moved on...

I only hope as you go
that you'll heed my alarm
and at the very, very least,
you leaping leopard
with magical charm,
slow your pace! Slow your pace!