What road makes me travel on so far can’t be so long.
I’d be damned to bend and break before the destination,
but these knees support only so much
and this weight has grown too heavy
to bare much more.
The cool air refreshed a moment too short.
Hot lungs seek one last reprieve, a heave and sigh;
we’ll never make it.
I peep a head higher just to glance what makes it’s way.
The blow diverges this skull, brain open for decision.
Deep breaths make this soul less weary.
What can I bring to show my worth but my own pen?
These inks display skill of form, Skill of Nothing.
We take organization and make it god.
I feel too weak to disobey.
Insert header here proves stifling, stiff, and gory on my paper.
No lines, I asked. 81/2x11 is poetry.
No comments:
Post a Comment