the electric shock in my chest is weakening.
i am thrown suddenly to the wolves,
letting it take complete control of me.
and this forest somehow feels brand new.
i don't recognize the tree lines-
and the ground doesn't hold my step the same.
the creek through the middle of the woods calls to me again and again,
but i know better than to not wait my turn to swim.
there's an impatience so silent-
barely a tap of friction in my heart.
i have no need to confess my sin.
i am fine with the unsuspecting roots from the birches.
i will trip,
and trip again,
until i'm ready to pick up my feet and run right into what is meant for me.
but i hate this sense of knowing-
because it's followed by a dread of actually not knowing.
maybe it's better off a secret-
but the creek will always call to me,
even if it was truly never a creek at all.
YOU ARE READING
speak softly
Poetryyou speak until your breath gives out, and the shallow huffs of words they never heard beg to be buried; but live on in the sidewalks. - - - prose/poetry
