Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god
Two Mile Poem
Time to get walking.
I am flying.
Purple doors.
I smell pine.
Broken beads in the road.
Slanted tree and my pants don't fit.
All around the shore, the seagulls feed.
This trip was funner last year.
I curse and sweat.
I walk backwards and moan.
I lay on this lawn to take pictures of
Star shaped flowers.
A lady bellows before the click.
I settle for pictures of dying roses.
Little feet run behind me.
My temple throbs or there's a bug in my hair.
A rocket, some wind or the breath of gods.
Driftwood and rotten thoughts.
It never ends a mile and a half.
Strategically placed bows in the setting sun.
A bundle of sticks fall at my feet.
The roses smell sweetest
When close to death,
A sickly sweet.
I ignore the scent, I see the clouds,
I remember tears but not my own.
I simply don't care.
"We're almost there."
I lie to little ears.
Almost is too far for little feet.
South of here is familiarity.
And pulled hair.
And super gay, a red shirt,
Some littered words,
And a lady wearing a bulletproof vest.
I am not tired,
But I could sleep in dreams of slits.
"Hurry up."
I beg.
My knees creak.
I hear the cries, sit on the dead grass to rest.
But no one has heard me,
Like I never had a voice.
No real friends, no fake ones either.
Only wind and whining.
The road curves.
My stomach jolts.
"We're almost there."
This time, I mean it.
And still, it's too far and old,
Smelling like antiques.
I thirst, I hunger, I push it all away.
Just like always.
I have a purpose, I'm a child.
Still.
The end, my invisible audience.
Where the beginning once was,
A labyrinth of misplaced thought.
By the time we arrived,
The sun was nearly gone.
The waves, choppier than ever.
Dirty feathers in hand,
The angry angel, not so angry anymore,
But thoughtful.
My feet don't hurt,
I don't feel anymore; if I don't want to.
When I finally look up,
The sky has changed.
My only complaint?
More water.
I'm lazy, my feet are dying.
But here I am.
In the calm of water, no longer frenzied.
No longer like me.
A smile to the dying sky.
No longer offering thought.
I stumble but I get back up.
The water fountain.
The pinkish horizon.
Cerulean rain.
The picnic, and two miles later...
Still slingshotting ideas into the water.
April 23 2009
I am flying.
Purple doors.
I smell pine.
Broken beads in the road.
Slanted tree and my pants don't fit.
All around the shore, the seagulls feed.
This trip was funner last year.
I curse and sweat.
I walk backwards and moan.
I lay on this lawn to take pictures of
Star shaped flowers.
A lady bellows before the click.
I settle for pictures of dying roses.
Little feet run behind me.
My temple throbs or there's a bug in my hair.
A rocket, some wind or the breath of gods.
Driftwood and rotten thoughts.
It never ends a mile and a half.
Strategically placed bows in the setting sun.
A bundle of sticks fall at my feet.
The roses smell sweetest
When close to death,
A sickly sweet.
I ignore the scent, I see the clouds,
I remember tears but not my own.
I simply don't care.
"We're almost there."
I lie to little ears.
Almost is too far for little feet.
South of here is familiarity.
And pulled hair.
And super gay, a red shirt,
Some littered words,
And a lady wearing a bulletproof vest.
I am not tired,
But I could sleep in dreams of slits.
"Hurry up."
I beg.
My knees creak.
I hear the cries, sit on the dead grass to rest.
But no one has heard me,
Like I never had a voice.
No real friends, no fake ones either.
Only wind and whining.
The road curves.
My stomach jolts.
"We're almost there."
This time, I mean it.
And still, it's too far and old,
Smelling like antiques.
I thirst, I hunger, I push it all away.
Just like always.
I have a purpose, I'm a child.
Still.
The end, my invisible audience.
Where the beginning once was,
A labyrinth of misplaced thought.
By the time we arrived,
The sun was nearly gone.
The waves, choppier than ever.
Dirty feathers in hand,
The angry angel, not so angry anymore,
But thoughtful.
My feet don't hurt,
I don't feel anymore; if I don't want to.
When I finally look up,
The sky has changed.
My only complaint?
More water.
I'm lazy, my feet are dying.
But here I am.
In the calm of water, no longer frenzied.
No longer like me.
A smile to the dying sky.
No longer offering thought.
I stumble but I get back up.
The water fountain.
The pinkish horizon.
Cerulean rain.
The picnic, and two miles later...
Still slingshotting ideas into the water.
April 23 2009
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Two Mile Poem
Two Mile Poem
