The Walk

First steps are kinda hard, Spring this time around is so cold,
I could write in, complain, I’m not that daring, not that bold.
Up ahead a dog runs unleashed in his little prison yard,
Guess she is content, if I free her, the fear will hit her hard.

Some little child waves from the big picture window,
Daddy is in the garage getting the machine ready to mow.
Mommy, you can see exhausted sneaking a smoke,
Behind the house they built, which one chokes?

Turn a corner, so easy to do when I’m on my two feet,
See the moonshine basking in the dusk, more complete.
From somewhere far away a bass and snare explode like bombs,
Musical dreams there arise or die, be they punk or Brahams.

Something sick arises in the center of my centers, the whole,
This oxygen is making me weak, fumes like burned dream coal.
Gotta head right on back, I’d head home but I don’t have one,
I’d cry tears, but unless I am imploded I don’t have none.

Start walking on the grass, to stay off the drug of man-made nonsense,
The vapidness in the air I smell like slightly rotted musky incense.
Heading the way I came, what a fucking righteous bloated irony,
Trapped by my own self-hate and sense of imprisonment of my own tyranny.

Around me, the night is born, as my body pushed on around the blocks,
Not measuring how many steps, can’t measure time with shattered clocks.
So let’s just lay around mentally naked in the suburban fields they call lawns,
I’ll walk around again I’m sure, once we capture and interrogate those inner pawns.
ThOmAs SpYcHaLsKi 

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