Poetry

Know, friend.

The sofa in your attic room

is a long slab of dough;

I sink into it every time

I visit.

 

I melt into the fibers

and hide there

until the storm

has passed over our heads –

 

the rage of alcohol

infects the whole street,

though the radiation-green trail

is a red-handed print from my house.

 

You tell me I can’t stay here

forever.

They’ll find me anyway,

better to turn myself in.

 

Part of me thinks you’re right.

Maybe my years of hiding

are over.

I’m supposed to be an adult soon, anyway.

 

Do adults really run

from their family?

You say you don’t know;

you’ve never had one.

 

I look at you, confused.

An empty room

stares back.

 

Poetry

Orbit

My foot

pounds down on the road.

The impact charges up my leg,

vibrating muscle, fat and skin.

The other leg comes down

and the force pushes the ground to breaking;

it can’t even breathe.

 

The weight of will

wishing to beat it from my mind

is heavy.

 

I gasp.

I gulp.

I drink in the air

and the wind cries with me,

flying by my side.

 

My strong legs can’t go on forever.

Eventually, the track will loop on itself

and I’ll end up back

where it all began.

 

I can picture it now;

myself a spectator of myself.

Watching from the start,

cringing at the beginning,

then appreciating the work it took

to build the foundations

I have now.

 

I cannot run for eternity.

But planets don’t stand still, either.