These lungs are a metaphor;
coughing up something
that doesn’t belong
These lungs are a metaphor;
coughing up something
that doesn’t belong
My words
are all old words
I don’t like much
learning new words
My world
is an old world
I don’t like much
inhabiting a new world
My wards
are all young wards
I don’t like much
looking after old wards
My words
are all old words
I find myself repeating
all my old words
My world
is an old world
I find myself
reliving in my own world
My wards
are young wards
I find myself
mirrored in the glass of my wards
My words
are not new words
I’ve said them all before
I’ve no new words
My world
is not a new world
if I refuse to change
it is the same world
My wards
are not new wards
if I refuse to grow
then so will my wards
I hear thunder
I see lightning
I smell rain
I feel the wind kiss my neck
Perpetually hard
wish we are
we want to fuck good
& go far
want it all but
we want little effort
silver platters &
spoonfed rations
automatically alive
the opposite of death
handed lap dances
we want to be free for free
specifically self centered
inwardly concerned
the whole world burns down
around us so we can get it up
Learning to let go
is harder than holding on;
routine vs. roulette
*** *** ***
Campground hosts walking
arm in arm before sunset;
a day’s work behind
*** *** ***
Trees sway in the breeze
ten thousand feet above sea;
Rocky Mountain high
*** *** ***
I rub worry stone
when happy, when I am sad;
its smoothness grounds me