killing the demons that i see in myself,
i run. but see that there's no way to be free
but to fight. and stand. and the hand
that chokes me is attached to my arm. the harm
is self-inflicted, i want the damage done.
i love the burn. i'd do anything for it. i'd
do anything to it. i hate it and love it even as i shove it
deeper down my throat.
peace comes when we die,
and not a moment sooner.
and all the striving and crying out in pain
and the rain that falls,
simply calls us higher as
we climb from the fire.
the flames lick our ankles,
the ladder crumbles beneath.
and the only light we see is
when we stare upwards, and upwards only.
i can't wait to fly away,
just like in those action movies--
clad in leather, hair flying behind me
from the seat of my motorcycle
engine roaring, flames erupting closer
as i accelerate into the unknown.
who's coming with me?
notes from a not-for-profit life. reader notes for poems: bold represents emotional thought, boldness; italics represent narrator-thought or God-thought.
1 comment:
I love this...its so true too--our greatest enemy seems so often to be ourselves. And there is no relief except in standing and fighting. Running away always looks like a good option but its only easier.
I'm going to fly home too. . .
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