Can’t Stop Moving

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Abstract

tride — watching from a point too high to be my head. To steady to be my will, directing each step.</p><p id="fd7f">I am drifting like Angels. Without the trumpets. Without the beating wings. Just the Urban kind. Dirty sneakers, ripped jeans, one of either side holding me upright, as I moan -</p><p id="a33b">“We’re living in a world of make believe, and trying not to let it show.” *</p><p id="da45">3 AM, my legs stop moving as my heart begins to slow. The pain was left on 60th Street and 13th Avenue. Next to a trash can. The sadness, laid carefully in a garden of roses by a church.</p><p id="be5d">I can breathe again now. Renewed and ready for another day. Feet stop moving please. Let me rest. Let me dream again.</p><p id="13a8">This came from a prompt by <a href="undefined">J.D. Harms</a>. Please feel free to add your own. <i>At 17, I began taking late night walks through Brooklyn. The streets were quiet, the ambient noise, down to a whisper. Just me, the streets and the emotions being purged. It was tough times and the motion as I walked, helped to ease the pain.</i></p><p id="dc10">*This line came from, from the Moody Blues, Land of Make Believe.</p><p id="0b93"><a href="undefined">Karen Madej</a> <a href="undefined">Trista Ainsworth</a> <a href="undefined">Tree Langdon</a> <a href="undefined">Michele Thill</a> <a href="undefined">Dr Mehmet Yildiz</a>

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Can’t Stop Moving

Midnight was when I walked. Dark streets illuminated by overhead lights, raining down on me one photon at a time. Counting the shadows as I tried to outrun them. Cutting the air with the sharp edges of my face, thrust forward into the night, daring anything living to get in my way.

Teenaged blues circling my head, like wraiths out for blood. Walk with me if you must, but leave my soul alone.

Anxious steps echo off brick schoolyard walls. Turning corners sharply, trying to outdistance the ache that feeds off the dreams. I will be fine one day. I will be happy. The smiles will return and mists, like opaque veils will lift and I’ll see this world again.

Mustn’t stop. Keep those feet moving. One AM — tired, but sadness is beginning to peel off — taking skin, but leaving behind hope At 2 AM I find my stride — watching from a point too high to be my head. To steady to be my will, directing each step.

I am drifting like Angels. Without the trumpets. Without the beating wings. Just the Urban kind. Dirty sneakers, ripped jeans, one of either side holding me upright, as I moan -

“We’re living in a world of make believe, and trying not to let it show.” *

3 AM, my legs stop moving as my heart begins to slow. The pain was left on 60th Street and 13th Avenue. Next to a trash can. The sadness, laid carefully in a garden of roses by a church.

I can breathe again now. Renewed and ready for another day. Feet stop moving please. Let me rest. Let me dream again.

This came from a prompt by J.D. Harms. Please feel free to add your own. At 17, I began taking late night walks through Brooklyn. The streets were quiet, the ambient noise, down to a whisper. Just me, the streets and the emotions being purged. It was tough times and the motion as I walked, helped to ease the pain.

*This line came from, from the Moody Blues, Land of Make Believe.