passing the rivers, the construction
sites, the fields, the trees,
I watch a truck pass in a shape I have never seen.
I see a girl with decorated skin
speed ahead to my left.
I pass plains and fields of dead trees.
there are lone buildings near broken
telephone poles,
and as I traverse the length of
this white lake, a similiar bird lifts
itself up from the water and into the
sky, as if it knew I had arrived, as if it were putting on a show just for me.
as if it were all just for me.
as if it were all just for me.

everyday i write and i write
and i hope something great flows from my pen.
i wish someone would read my poems with wide eyes and finish with tears.
i long for my love to read those that are about her
and they'll make her run back to me.
i wonder if my writing will be remembered
or thrown into the wind with my ashes.

i want to know the world.
i want to know myself
i want to write.

I yearn to move,
move towards the road
which I pray will save me.
I never saw a light
like those that speed towards me
from the other side of those great, yellow lines.

Pull from the essence of Dean Moriarty
and move, move, move!
I find myself stuck in the mud
of this broken town and wish the flood would come again.
The flood that could whisk me away,
and I would wake up on my back
anywhere in the world
ready to take on life
in a fistfight.

the world is so ugly
and the ugliness is inside
me too

i wish you would listen
and my words were not released
never to be received, into the open
air.
and you would look me in the eyes
with meaning in yours,
and apologize.