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The HitchhikerThe Hitchhiker
I passed a hitchhiker while driving home the other day.
It was late afternoon and the sun was casting long fishing line rays of light into the lake of swaying grasses.
The hitchhiker walked backwards, silhouetted with his back pack towards the sun.
His fist clenched, thumb pointing up, but hope slipping by the second.
Wind blew his locks of wavy blonde hair away from his face as each passing car drove buy.
We locked eyes and I envied him.
So may roads had kissed the soles of his shoes. So many starry nights had been reflected in his eyes.
I drove by and didn't stop, but I watched him in my mirror.
I looked back while he only looked forward.
We like to think that we're going someplace when we drive from home to work and back again.
We like to think we're putting one foot in front of the other when we're only retracing our steps.
We like to think we're covering new ground when we're only covering our foot prints with new ones.
We look back and only see fresh tracks, not th
Half asleep and dead on my feetI'm so tired, but rest is the last thing on my mind.
Every time my head hits the pillow it's like a slap in the face.
Every time I inhale deeply my ribs break.
Every time I close my eyes tear trails appear which cannot be erased.
They lead somewhere, but only to dead ends.
Every time I reach the end of the rope I've been chasing I want to wrap it around my neck.
Every time I feel the cliff's edge under my toes I want to jump.
Every time the train nears it's destination the tracks cease and the train of thought wrecks.
I'm trying to stay on track,
But every time I see a blank page I want to write a poem and tear it in half.
Every time I see a way out I box myself in.
Every time I see a flag flying high it's still half staff.
Dreaming is something I could never do.
Every time I break through I break down and cry.
Every time I try I can't get past that breaking point.
Every time I awake I can't breath. One of these nights I'll stop all together and die.
Sometimes I wish it would happen.
On The RoofThe treeline is filled with jagged teeth and the mouth of this clearing devours the sky.
I sit on the this roof to watch the clouds,
But they never stop and still as they pass by.
Some move this way and others run away,
But none of them know how to stay.
The farther that they run the brighter they look.
Maybe I should run away too.
I'm sure I would if I could fly,
But the closest I can come to flying is falling
And it's just not the same.
Maybe if I jump I could hit the ground running,
Or at least just hit the ground.
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