Anyone
by beighartman
There’s nothing special to it:
Anyone could write these lines.
Just like anyone
Could search for truth
Find it.
And still refuse to believe.
I guess it’s not for everyone.
There’s nothing special to it:
Anyone could write these lines.
Just like anyone
Could search for truth
Find it.
And still refuse to believe.
I guess it’s not for everyone.
my lack of works surpassing
a single syllable seems consistently
to lead to poems with lines nearly
or at least visibly
unrelated
but the thoughts seem so tangible
when my fingers move and they spit themselves
out
before i manage to complete the thought
reminding me
i cannot think without these words
my thoughts do not form without me
speaking
farting
or writing
and button after button this
idea makes it into history.
something i’m writing
because i’m unable to simply
dwell on it
mud
sweat
beers
the many words they help to conjure
rides and runs and
bitter cold
with blue sky – and snow
benches dedicated only be filled with you
- together
street lamps lonely and frozen
out of place
off the grid
mysteries
water balloons shot at distant trains
epic battles with snow balls
with fevers
overheating and overeating
the “phew!”
the proud
the in-betweens
and you
muse you are and muse you do
now life can be lived without you
Although, I trade in words,
I long to make writing my craft;
craft like a carpenter of old,
finding beauty in the mundane
and glory in the dull.
the railroad tracks behind my
old house
remind me of the roads i
used
to
want to take
and how i left many of them behind
to write and to run
writing brings my fingers joy
and running brings me delusions
filled with grandeur
i don’t write too good
my england nor so too powerful
but i’m probably the best runner in the whole wide
world
when i run
beside the railroad tracks
behind my new house
my fingers are happy now
i need some delusions
