His eyes are a car crash. When my life is passing by, I can't help stare. It's common knowledge that you shouldn't but I do. I don't see the horror or pain, I see the death of dreams and I see the cold reality of my infatuation.
From his lips, I hear the load roaring. The sirens: soft and tender, red and bright, grabbing the attention of all. Not just anybody can joyride about with the company of that. If I ran up and tried to steal some, I'd be shot down to my death instantaneously.
My attention moves on, past the car crash, to downtown.
From afar, I admire his strong upper body. It is like a grand park full of immensely strong, curved trees and large plains of silky smooth grass.
His neck is thick, like the trunk of a thick, dark oak, natural and powerful. The trunk points straight-up. It does not talk but it says so much. It's potential speaks however. How it can grow, like a seedling or like love. Or how a rope, also thick, could hang from it.
His shoulder muscles are like two cute, coupled hills. Never bent, just slanted. Not too steep even for a fragile teenage girl with skinny legs to climb with ease. I dare not climb them though, incase I get near the top and a gust of wind blows me back. I would roll to my slumber.
In the driving by moment, trapped on a straight road, I do not see all of the park.
I would stop to visit, but it is not open to the public.
I pull out a fag, my shaky hands light it. A smug woman in a car to my left gives me a harsh look and she inhales from her healthy lungs.
YOU ARE READING
The Confessions of a 90's Kid
Poetry"Words are weapons: for warriors, for war heroes, for worrying teenagers and therefore for me."
