07 February 2011

kickin' it old school

I'm sure this poem exists in its own post somewhere in the recesses of my archive, but I found it in an old email today. I miss writing poetry. I can't remember much about March of 2006, but this was a product of my surroundings then.
It's crazy how this still pulls at my heartstrings.
Tell me what you think.

Daily lives, routines, monotonous worship.
False alarms, fourty-five times sixty
How long before you explode in my face?
French braids, paper flowers,
Write magenta on my face.
I wipe my spit away; I smear your masterpiece.
Tie a string and bind yourself to life.
Light poles are strong.
They fall too.
Push me into the mud as I turn red with clay.
Take out my stomach and I can't live.
Fountains are compelling. They only reach so high.
I walk. I sit. I walk. I sit. I sleep.
Be honest and tell me your intentions.
This bush can't take much more abuse.
This heart is losing its ability to hold on, to fight.
Your personal time is nonexistent.
I don't pity anyone, let alone you.
Time is ticking, you're waiting too long.
Time's giving up on you. It's walking away slowly.
Then it runs.
And you're alone.

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