when did the whistle even blow?
i couldn't tell, but before i knew it i was running
(like) my life depended on it.
i didn't know why, but my legs kept holding me
up from the ground
i continued to run alone and a few miles later i
see others on the same path—a competition?
i didn't know.
every second, every minute was the same
i kept running further and further and the air seemed to get more suffocating, the sky a little less blue; me running in my tattered shoes.
time passed excruciatingly long and passed by, without me knowing, in a blink
i was still ignorant, not knowing why
i was running
where
i was going and how I ended up
more on the ground rather than up in the air
when everyone else was still running
and my knees hurt, the ground feels better than before, an escape from this marathon
it's not worth running
i watch as everyone passes me by, one glance
i have not another choice, like before, i go back into my running stance
i might be a bit
slow
shoulders hanging, chin down as i lie low
pushing away wishes of starting with a bicycle
hoping there's the finish line, that i'm not
running in circles
before i know it, i'm back on my feet
why, how and for what i don't know
still, still the marathon doesn't end like the thoughts in my mind
it's 24/7
thinking back to when the whistle blowed
do i know why i run? when i'll stop? whether this is all just for fun? i know the answer still i don't—i can't stop
‘nope.