On A Train

I can’t hear the music but my feet can feel the beat

and though I avoid looking at anyone I know what they all are wearing

and my heart is clacking time with the tracks

and I feel myself getting smaller as the distance grows

being pulled, stretching like taffy

and I listen for the snap

I imagine everyone who is running feels like this

second guesses screaming your name

but the sky is reaching down and I want to hitch that ride

and if the baggage you can’t see is heavier than the faded one I’m carrying

let me pretend I am handling it 

let me pretend all I feel is nonchalantly strong

while I keep my face blank and badass

as the landscape blurs and changes

and I can taste the strangeness in the air

my restless feet stumbling over each other

twitching to get walking

and leave the track behind…


About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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