Jogging

They say there’s such a thing as a runner’s high

I don’t believe it-I’ve only got stitches in my side

From sprinting too hard to run from all my ghosts

Or maybe I’m running from those who care most.

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My insides are itching from the pain of heaving breath

My fingers are twitching to dance and violently caress

This mind is great at racing, a damn olympian

But my limbs are best at sinking into oblivion

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I exert all my energy on this gravely, winding trail

Knowing if I stopped, the earth would dissolve and fail.

So I’ve become tired in this heavy, itching, stinging body

I’d love to just breath deep, lay in this field of poppies.

.

Each step, and word, and thought is white hot in my mind

Wondering if my destination, and my fate, is resigned

The path is strange, alive and it rarely gives reprieve

and I’m slowly understanding, it needs no excuse to leave.