Still... Yeah, I'm walking. I'm pushing... still. I have this hope riding my back like a sack of gold, but it's weight drags me low, and all I can hope is the next piercing might make this thought manifest... that somehow the endorphin's can last and the smile might ride my face.. still. But I'm upright and pushing, and that is a fuck of a lot more than anyone has any right to ask of me. I will keep fighting on because... I can.. still, I wish there was something different. Maybe a bright moment, like an epiphany of fire, some explosive recognition of seconds that would let me be... still
YOU ARE READING
Floating
PoetryI've collected a lot of works I have made for me and thrown them into a mess of empathic poetry I have done for others.
