lastbadger

It's time for me to write, pitch black on lined white.
In the quiet hours overnight, it's 3am.
Not a thing moves here except my hand and pen across a page.
My hand always seems to stumble.
A lack of eleagance to the letter, and the better part of this time I'll spend wondering.
Who am I? Where am I going? when will I know?

Too many times I'll knock over trees looking for a thin trail. For their youth though they bounce right back.
And the backs of old trees are already bent over barstools in Las Vegas lounges.
Lunching on whatever light makes its way in through whatever doors are open.
Opening homes for prospective buyers.

Me I just wanna buy some time.
I'm sorry, in particular some free time. Because right now freedom is what i'm feeling.
I'm fiending for some sunlight spent in open fields, but all I got is this fucking forest of things to do and people to please.
I'm still pleasing myself on a daily basis though.
Excluding only the time when I got away from myself, and actually felt the warmth on my face and beneath my feet.

That served more as a reminder of the way things could be.
To be reminded again I'll have to navigate these woods and find some moves so I can buy taste smell and see my freedom sweet freedom once again.

*Happy Journal Poetry Day*