Three. Two. One let's jam.
I don't know how to run without getting shin splints.
I don't know how to talk without tratterling.
But God, it's still worth it.
The way she keep lickin' those lips, them burns'll heal quick
She wears her shirt around her hips as she hums and laughs and cooks
The shades are up and the windows are open
Anyone could see--but no one will. But anyone could; and this is called thrill.
The bread she bakes today will taste twice as sweet tomorrow
Once for the brown sugar mixed in the milk
Once for the secret of flour on skin
Rolled oats on silk
Rolled oats on silk
Does it taste sense?
We were all born to run. So where did it go so wrong?
ReplyDeleteOur feet never touch the ground. Never the earth, the rocks, or dirt. Layers of plastic and foam keep us at arm's length of where we should be. Grounded. The machine is failing because we don't know how to use it. And we don't want to. We recline, we sit, having no desire to fly, and so we never will.
When it occurs to us that, just maybe, running could be freedom, we fracture our legs, crack our feet, and are left with splints on our wings. Because we forgot how to run, or never learned.