Skip to main content

Pity Party Perfunctory: If Life Were A Race

If life were a race i'd be running,

running down a winding road.

The finish line exists it's inevitable, 

yet sometimes it's nowhere in sight.

Then I glance towards the horizon and unknowingly my eyes catch the light.

Run towards the sun only to stumble.

A breath hitches as the scent fills the air,

Blood swirling, and flowing, its smell rising

Far faster than my legs could ever bare.

But I spring up with a start and I smile!

I bleed out as my legs start swish.

The world blurry and dewy and hurtful.

But all of this journey is something I wished.

The rocks they pierce into my sneakers.

They're worn and unfit for the mud.

It squelches and squishes and I want to squirm, but I don't flinch because good posture is a must.

I hum to keep myself company, as the shock from the fall starts to fade.

The roots and the vines all cling to me, and I wonder if I'll ever feel the same.

There are travelers, but they're far ahead now.

All rushing straight towards the bright sun.

All bearing the pain better than I, all better than I could dream to be.

It is my own fault that I struggle. I should run harder and get better shoes.

I should shout to the travelers to assist me, but that's something that I'd never do.

The sharp rocks start to seem more inviting. I beackon to their well deserved sting.

The winding road seems more endless, perspective is such a strange thing.

I used to be one of those travelers.

This road was a temporary thing.

But the more that I stay, the more infinite it seems, and the destination...the destination? 

There's no longer a destination

On this winding road.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Dream Story

I followed the impulse up the stairs to stand in my bedroom, to fade into its familiarity. The same bed, the same tousled covers flung haphazardly the past morning. If we each owned a lifelong landscape, in this moment my bedroom would be mine. The same mess...the same solace. Sometimes being in my room feels like an escape. It feels like I could detach from the world and drift into the clouds on my worn rug island. I proceed to bury my face in the blankets, pick up a pillow and press it to my skin, plummet into a sweatshirt. My sanctuary. In here, even if it's temporary, I'm safe from everything else. Free from everyone else. I'm distracted from the inevitable. You're supposed to be looking for something... Ah! Thank you brain for the reminder. I'm here because I'm looking for something! Something I need... I feel my eyes snap into their searching regimen. Scan the room, glance left then right, identify the difference. Find what's out of place.....remove it...
Post a Comment
Read more

(Sonnet) "Finding the Secret Symphony," & Response to Harry Baker's Ted Talk

  Finding the Secret Symphony, Written by Alana W. Watch as the rhythms rise off of the page Words twinkling like starlight, the melody Weaving the wisdom, the song of our age A paper, a piece of our remedy Pencil is poised our sword or salvation Thoughts brimming off of the top of my brain Tempo, allegro, pace of creation Releasing laughter, adventure , and pain Cry for compassion, myriad mistakes Crescendoing chords resounding in me Bawling my narrative, tears could flood lakes A sweet serenade to who I can be The absence of sound, the pencil is still A swift glance around, a sacred thrill Written Response Harry Baker's poems Paper People and The Sunshine Kid inspired me to write this sonnet. Baker's poetry was unique in that it displays the capability of writing. The endless possibilities and the means to move people, the ability to change. Baker's poems reflected the state of our world, and acknowledge experiences I've known too well in "The Sunshine Kid."...
Post a Comment
Read more

First Day of My New Blog!

 Hello! I found a printed letter with unfamiliar, yet recognizable handwriting on it. I read the written message at the bottom of the document, but it didn't make sense. HICU? Barclays? Mom? This message was not written in my mom's handwriting, who is this note from? I looked to the top of the document, I looked to the printed text to discover this letter was from my grandmother. The letter was concerning hospital payments for my grandfather's treatment. He died of cancer among other things a few months ago. I knew I had other notes from classes or rambling, but I had to keep looking. I kept telling myself to find something new, find writing that's not mine. I found it. Writing that's not mine, words I wasn't meant to see.
Post a Comment
Read more