Do not run, get away.

I experienced an emotional rent today.
An feeling that ran through me.
As my feet beat a path along the rivulet track,
gravel scuffing and sliding and grinding under the tread of my trainers.
I came to the water reservoir by cascade and an opening occurred.
From my memory to my senses. A sudden ghost, dormant was awakened.
Unwanted sensitivity brushed over my nerves and made me frown.
Cringing away from this turbulent internal swirl I ran on with renewed vigor.
My agitation set my brow to more of a furrow as a scowl took over my lips. By chest beat a heavy rhythm and my right lung asked questions of me.

I have thought a lot while running, and forgotten more.
If I could,
If I had the heart i’d run with pen and paper in my hands.
Just to capture the many strands
Ideas of would and should.
Good and bad wonderings and wishes.
Why did mum always do the dishes.
Where are all the well-wishers?

How long will this last.
Why do I wear this mask.
Peace I know, is too much to ask.
Pucker up, remember your task.
Put down your flask.
Summers sun bask.
Tomorrow you can set sail, fly the mast.

One memory per day.
That’s all you have to do.
Before bed.
After work.
Don’t get caught up cooking dinner or anything silly like that.
No time for gravy or roasts.
Food is fuel and there is so much more to life once you’ve nailed the basics.
The dutch way, throw it all in a pot and cook it.
Maybe that’s Indian.
I’m not to know. I should really check out India.
India and New Zealand.
Someboy stole my shoes.
Somebody.
Anybody.
Let me rage, my knee a hinderance? I wonder.
YOGA. Every day. A retreat, that would be nice wouldn’t it.
Some day, some time, just to relax, get in touch with my internal self.
Flex my mind, stretch my body. Sweat and move and think and flex and move and stretch and meet people and share myself. And smile, even if behind that smile is a cracked visage. A broken plate, a fractured windscreen. A decree dropped in a blender. A writ for my own arrest. A warrant for my own poison. A smile that’s fettered with the memory of loss. My rancor, hidden in the bog of my mind. Submerged. Boiling with want, lusting to be let loose on earth. Saved for a rainy day. When the bog swells and the unnatural groans can spread wildly from its ordinarily quiet shores.
And the maw, clean and dark. Teeth brushed, shining bright. Emanating like some sick nuclear disaster. Pulsing, perfect glinting whiteness. Gilded with stress lines. Strong and hypnotizing. Fascinating, reptilian fang. Sharp and frozen. Undesirable wants. Conflicted. Self-satisfied suffering.
Breathing heavily.
Thumbs up to another jogger, smiling in every way but my eyes.
They are the pits of elsewhere. A gargantuan, otherworldly mention.
Flies do not fly.
Apples do not fall.
Canines tails drop to the floor.
And my eye look out among.
Eyebrows quiver.
Like minded, my gaze like arrows pierce my surroundings.
Look. Look obtuse. Pointed, angry.
If a flame could leap from a gaze, then the thatch of the world would burn.
Mirrors show no cool reflection. I must divert or feel myself stirred to an unwanted fire. Cinder and snow, showing past the toothy grin spreading from gums and lips.
So false, blood could erupt from my every pore.
Gasoline smell, a clicking of teeth, the sparking of a match.
My frail structure of triangles, no bridge could hold the weight on my shoulders, no provide a girder over this void in space.
A maw that opens up and takes all.
Nothing is chewed, there is only peace and darkness.
My eyes, satellited that beam nothingness into reality.
My open mouth, sobbing, gasping breaths would devour all if it weren’t for my teeth.
My bright-white teeth. Stronger than bone or gaolers arms.
Imprisoning the darkness withing. Smiling wide, undented bars;
Holding behind them, the depths of all that I hold dear.
My sacred suffering, my hangups that eat away and torture me.
Wracked and seething, flooding my eyes.
The lids would boil if not for my tears.
Hot streaks of the salted oceans. Infinite shards of rock and broken glass.
A crayon within me breaks each day as the spectrum of my colourful nature shudders and bakes in the foil of my being.
I will never be stuffed. I am not an apple.
There is no sugar, no syrup of life.
Where once I was a grape, to have escaped being peeled, only to have dried up in the heat of my own angers. My mirror gaze, the loss of tears, dried up.
Resembling rat shit, I am a raisin.
Foiled by my own thinkings. My eighty percent, evaporated.
Yes, my father would be proud.
To have lived to see all of my friends die.
To have succummed to drag.
Whence once was fabulous, now all is unreal and I am something that I am not.
Cordial sweet, but waterless.
Bastard is my base, and memories fade.
Close my eyes to bring about the death of the day.
We all deal with this tragedy, grief in our own way.
“Its OK” “It happens”.

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