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.