Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
it was just past three am
and the engine was running rough
and there was miles and years to go
streetlights goin by so fast they seem to flicker
like an old time picture show
the radio playing loud
some oldies station with an echo
like time was a tunnel of stars and streetlights
that endless perfect night with your girl next to you
shes wearing shorts and a wifebeater
flip-flops and all thouse bracelets
she tinkled when we would bounce in the back seat
she just laughs and says **** tootin'
my soul is three inches from flying pavement
and iv never felt so alive
the whole world comes down to that
floating flying dreamin running laughin freedom
on the wings of the engines secret fires
the road itself takes on a other worldly glow
in thouse hypnotic headlights
there in the tunnel of stars and headlights
a buick and a girl
iv never been so alive
Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.
Clawed free standing
A bath tub
Copper filled with salt water
Outstretched beachscapes
A view to ****
Of those dawning
Singing dolphins
Dancing so freely
Without caution
And there remains you
Not cast out at sea
Stranded none the less
Paradise island
Never once tasted sweet
The salt had blisters
The copper etching scrawls
Semi precious skin
She knows she's up
When the light of the moon
Is up there on his throne
This queen awaits
To take a chance
On living
Once
Again.*

© Sia Jane
It's 3am and I can't sleep!

— The End —