It's A Poeming Thing
If I was to die young
the first thing I'll end
would be this ever churning,
little cog lifestyle of 9 to 5's,
constipated traffic and caffeinated days.
With arms wide opened,
I'll embrace death into my bosom,
and make the most of it.
Hand in hand, we'll walk,
ending our days and starting anew
with grit while we trudged together
along all the paths
I could've traveled but let go.
Today I smirked at the moon above as it outshined the remaining stars in the sky, only to become slowly and steadily engulfed by the sun, with each of my footfalls. Huddling deeper into my coat, I braced against a blast of polar air and grumbled, "Is this really spring?" But the only answer I received was the monotone voice from my phone app repeating, "It is 6:40 am. Heart thudding in fear, I sprinted down the block littered with naked trees, and pass trimmed yellowed lawns. Tearing through the nipping winds, I weaved and bobbed my way to the next street, arriving at the bus stop with seconds to spare. I watched as my bus careened to a halt, its wheels still screeching while the doors wheezed open to accept me and the newly raised fare I'd have to pay hereafter. Gulping for air, I resigned myself to board the bus and sink into the cushioned seat, the only good thing to the start of the day. And when I closed my eyes, I flew free like the sparrow and headed south to gorge upon the beauty of Iguazu Falls. Once sight and heart overrunneth, I next found myself dripping in sweat racing a cheetah in northwest Africa. Of course I lost, but vowed to beat him again before spreading my wings again, this time to Seoul. And perched on a bench, I nibble on some sparrowed kimchi and dukbokki and count the colors of the rainbow illuminated under the city's night sky. And as I pondered my next destination, I awoke with a jolt from the sound of peeling tires. Heart sinking at the familiar landscape of cold steel and glass office buildings, I grudgingly press for the next stop. And then begins the second start of my day latching onto a fleeting dream I long to make true.
a message through time
dear past self, hope will
free you from the quelled curtains
to a grand, bright stage
Since When Did the Good Times End?
There once was a girl named Dee Dee
who loved spirits, and flying free.
Working nine to five
in an office hive,
she wails, "how did this befall me?!"
To You Who Was Always There
The path I walked laid clear
and unbroken and unchanging.
So much so, that I marched