Feb 22


there's something reassuring
about the plain rhythm of gloves on a bag. 
after days of being lost, 
six hours from home and trying to be a tourist
all while wrestling with sickness. 
there's something about traveling 
that raises all these lost, uncertain feelings
like your own head is trying to tip the world off balance
or like you're not necessarily
alone in the basement 
being able to beat out your frustrations
calms me down. 
stops my head whirling. 
i only really think of people who get out their feelings
with violence
as those maniacs on midsomer murders 
with no impulse control
but yet here i am. 
it clears my head 
much the same way, i imagine, running does--
but whenever i run my mind wanders
and i end up stuck within myself again. 
here there is only
trying to get the angle right so i don't hurt my hand
keeping on breathing
trying not to choke on my cough drop
(because that would be pathetic and ironic.)
my arms ache, 
the plastic smell of the gloves permeates my nostrils, 
the world stabilizes. 
might not be perfect, but it's still mine. 

yeah. this is really just a me getting my thoughts out poem. it's not made for quality or whatever.