I can't
Run
Much faster.
My
Legs are
Burning.
Time is
Running
Out and
I have
No
Where to
Go.
My escape
Has
Been blocked.
It's
Fight or
Fight.
And however
Many
Abrasive words
I
Sometimes write
I
Am a
Pacifist.
I don't
Have
Many options.
They
Want my
Head
On a
spike
Or my
Body
At there
Feet.
Time is
Fast
But not
As
Fast as
Death.
Which isn't
In
Reach yet
But
Sometimes I
Wonder
Is that
What
They want?
8.4.16
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Paintbox
PoetryPoems from the inner corners of my brain, under my nails and the end of my paintbrush.
