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Vexren4000 Jun 2018
Redlining down autobahns,
Highways and twisting side roads,
Country cornfield straight streets,
As the meter passes red,
The car begins to shake,
A violent sound,
Then silence.

┬ęBAS
Warren Bodnaruk Jan 2018
Manitoba,
I miss your emptiness.
Highways and plains,
straight and eternal.
Snow squalls,
playing and twisting,
across white-washed asphalt.
Stripping away our regrets,
and small town prairie sins.
We'd drive for hours,
Just to see the Jets play.
And all night,
Chase the Northern lights,
coloured ribbons of life,
that filled our cold souls,
With frigid beauty,
And breathless awe.
When we finally stopped,
they said it was minus 60 out,
but holding you close
kept my heart beating & fluttering,
Until the sun arose,
Across those ice-encrusted,
Prairie fields.
Mister J Nov 2017
Driving for miles
To get to where you are
Knees are aching
Hands are shaking
Fuel tank almost dry
Engines barely alive
Legs are tired
Tires wearing out
How long 'til I reach the end?

But..
I'm driving to where you are
and..
No matter how long or far
As long as the road ends
on the space beside you
I'll keep driving on
the highway towards you
I've been traveling and driving quite a lot this past few weeks.
I dunno if cars and love mix well.
But yeah, sometimes I love driving,
Sometimes I hate it.

:)
Sid Oct 2017
I'd never have to understand that we were born into equal sized roadways-
another unwritten rule suspended in the air
amongst the somewhat unnecessary details we'd 'forgotten'
to mention over the past few years.
But that was okay right?
I mean you'd found your direction
and accelerated ahead of me;
thinking you'd see the world differently from there?
Sure, your perspective involved hues that I was blind to but
I'd found this gem within the shadows of all these cars
(Shh! Don't let them know you're catching up!
This highway was ruled by colours,
not words.)
redyellowgreenredyellowgreen
You just couldn't stay within your own lane-
oblivion muddled with reality
blurred my blindspot
so I advise you to swerve out of my way
unless you want to get hit
(accidentally on purpose.)
-
You'd always remark that I could handle the wheel,
ever so sweetly,
but this
is what you implied?
-
I knew it was all too much,
trying to balance everything
(Shh! My plate was too full,
each nutriment colliding with another-
the chocolate syrup painted ice cream
enveloped half my dish,
intruding the space against her wish.)
You always seemed to have the cleanest looking plate,
however you continuously allowed me to spill over
onto the rim of your
pristine porcelain, as if
you enjoyed
watching me overflow,
explode.
You never did anything about it,
never cleaned the dishes,
simply watching as various delicacies drew fantasies
right
in
front
of you.
Though those weren't even
close
to my fantasies.
You dream of candy floss nests and gumdrop buttons
whereas I dream of freshly cut watermelons and berries
(please do the dishes
or leave.)

// riding shotgun was the sweetest thing
you said we'd done
right before I floored the brake
and more than sugar
went flying out the window. //
stay in your own lane.
It's 2 a.m.
Time to go
Get on the road again
Shower, shave
and grab some joe
I am a workin' man

Each day
my routine
one...two...three
it is
the thing
that makes me me

A working man,
Hard workin' man
I do what must be done
I'm up each day
while it's still dark
And I'm not finished till the sun....

goes down
driving cross the land
I'm up at two
In bed by ten
I am a workin' man

I never
seem to
find the things
To love
What working
hard may bring

My truck
all loaded
Time to hit the road
the alarm
goes off
inside my head

I spend
most of
my life alone
it's me
my truck
and the road

it's 2 a.m.
it's time to go
I am a working ma
shower, shave
that cup of joe
workin' makes me who I am
Jack Gladstone Jul 2014
Why is it "American's hunger to move"?

Is it a lack of identity (i.e. being a mixed bag of ancestry such as Germanic, Celtic, Anglo-Saxon) and the search to find one?

Is it something in the land pounded into the earth by the feet of it's nomadic natives long ago?

Is it the near constant expansion since the days of Lewis, Clark, Pike, and Hudson?

Could it be the cyclic disillusionment inevitable in the culture and economic cores of the country?

Is there just too ******* much space?

It would be easy to blame President Eisenhower for the whole thing by giving people a means of traveling the whole country so conveniently in the first place.

But I don't think that is it.

Who am I to know though? I'm not even pretending to have an answer.
I paraphrase "American's hunger to move" as I feel ethically obligated to point out that phrase is not my own but despite constant googling I cannot find it's true source

— The End —