Trying to hang on tight through the ride of life
|I'm not sure exactly when it happened.
How does one genuinely know when they began to break?
Grabbing my head with both of my hands
I squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.
I thought maybe, just maybe, if I could squeeze hard enough the crack that zig-zagged its way around my skull
would somehow mend—
It didn't, of course. That would have been too easy.
Don't expect free rides in life. Unless you can run fast enough to hop a train.
I can't. I've tried.
So I steal away in the car's dark corners. Then do a lively animation in the passing, flashing strobe lights.
But in all reality, you know
you understand that's not free either.
You will pay. One way or the other payment is always expected.
More often than not, it will be payments such as these that add to
of your mind.
of your soul,
of your world.
But you take the hard blows to your mind, and you keep moving through life. That's what we're supposed to do.
So you keep taking those damn blows, then smile your most radiant smile and hop on down the gravel road. And you'll do it. You'll do it without ever missing a beat.
Without ever falling off of the track!
After all, that's against the rules, isn't it?
That's not the way the game of life is played.
The years pass by. You become a pro at patching up your cracks.
Now, you can grab both sides of your head and squeeze with all your might
over and over and over and over
and no one will ever see the stream of blood leaking out of your orifices.
And just when you think you have it all under control, the blows turn into vise-grips. And they won't let up!
Not. For. A. Second!
Metal spikes have become unhinged
Your train of life lays in a scattering,
across the rocky road, lapped over with muddy water.
Metal grates against metal. Your soul's shredded, you're no longer able to grip life's tracks.
You find yourself
A Freeverse Form. It's written to be expressed in spoken form. That's why I tried to vary the lines, line breaks, and stagger the words. I'm trying to get across the passion and the tone of spoken poetry.
May Prompt: “Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.” ― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Written for "The Bard's Hall Contest" [13+]
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