Running and Writing

I write and I run.  And I do it again, and again, and again...until I hope there's nothing left to write, nothing left to keep running to...or from.

I write exactly the same as I did four years ago, and I haven't changed.  I write how I feel, and I feel exactly how I did before:  as a Romantic stuck. 

I run to ruminate and mull over my thoughts, to get everything I can't stop thinking about out of my head, to force it out through my skin as tears swell up as lumps of sweat running down, stinging my eyes with their bitter salt rubbing against a regretably festering sore.


They say it's crazy to do the same thing and expect a different outcome.

I think it's crazy to do entirely different things and expect the same outcome.



The Friction

The friction intensifies,
the heat builds and kills,
as the skin heaves n' cries.
As it blisters in its shrill;

until it vomits its globs,
sick to its stomache,
cleaving at its core,
begging for a cleric.

The globs form and storm
down the walls of fatigue:
the muscles broken weak,
the friction left forlorn.

'til the drop, with their salt,
embittering the vision
with the sting of old fault,
dissolving into the depths
of pereption:

infecting every lens--
the quick, torrid taint of a lost history.