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little lion Feb 2
I have taught myself to believe that everything happens for a reason... how else am I supposed to cope with the endless, torturous hurt that barrels through my body day after day,
wearing down my bones the way
trains begin to wear down their tracks;
the piercing shriek of the wheels spinning against
the push of the brakes mimicking the
cry of my legs struggling to hold up the
nineteen year's worth of
trauma and heartache and exhaustion
threatening to come tumbling down onto
the tracks while my
heart is forced to stare helplessly on,
an innocent bystander
to the impending tragedy that will
forever scar her for life as she is
forced to watch me lose mine?
There has to be a reason
Kira Davis Dec 2018
I've always wanted to walk down railroad tracks
Balanced on rusty rails
Arms outstretched
Taunting the behemoth
Hit me, hit me

Maybe they lead to my youth
Where mornings were warm
And the air tasted like dew
I would wear a dress just to feel the wind
whip at my skirts

Maybe I could lie down
In the middle, maybe
I could watch it pass
over
me
Or maybe I would lie across
And watch it pass
under
me

Maybe I'm just taunting god
I hear lights and see the wails of sirens
Is it dawn or dusk? I can't
remember
The trees on either side reach out
I wish I could touch them

Hit me, hit me
I'll watch it pass from above
sunprincess Oct 2018
There's a place where hands of a clock never move
A place where things are never changing
A place well hidden, not many could ever find it
Only wild animals and a flock of crows

Once upon a time the place was probably on a map
Until early one morning someone awoke
And threw their finger in the air and loudly cried
Eureka! Let's remove the railroad tracks!
Gabriel Bonney Sep 2018
I have stepped out onto the railroad station
I had found my train, after contemplation
Inside my heart, a feeling for two is stored
My only question: will you take me aboard?
(Hence my profile picture)
Anna Miller Oct 2017
The trains are always making me late.
Stoplights blink red.
Spend eternity here.

Feel the ground shake.
Make my legs tremble.
Feel tremor take my bones
railroad-hostage.

Watch the wheels roll over steel tracks.
Think my body splayed out on top.
Wheels make ****** body, bare
         all the teeth
         crush and snap.
Inside becomes chewed up and spit out.

Think yet another unconscionable death.
Another way to make the body break
         open, tear out everything leftover,
         push it through the softened skin.

Think another coward’s thought.
         Call it what it isn’t.
               Call it growing pains.
                      Call it impulse.
                             Call it coping.

Think through all this passing
train-time.
Brooke P Aug 2017
I crawled under the door, with none in hand
sitting in the backseat waiting
I’d wish it all away, if I could
high noon; the world sighs
over the railroad tracks ruined my day.
the little thing whose bones got rearranged
We make up stories to feel safe at night
and the Parisian streets under unbearable heat.

But they won’t let me,
handing out promises I can’t keep
broken heart strings
plucked and snapped
here I am,
still stuck in between.
Jami Samson May 2013
With mechanical portals known to be doors
That either lead to different worlds or take you home,
These cabled vehicles like tunnels on wheels fastened on a railroad track
Stretch to both ends of the universe under a single route.
And as you get in for closure,
You put your trust on the obscure.

Just say the magic words;
It will take you anywhere you wish to be.
Even though magic always comes with a prize,
The only cost are countable units of your time
And also a few dimes,
In return for the travel of your life.

Across the carpeted walkway of reaching out,
Through the glass windows of visible silver lining,
Behind the blank and arid faces that lure the soul to sink in deep wonder,
The lights and skyscrapers, and mist silhouetting the scenery,
All appear in bokeh, all blend in your eyes;
Your eyes that glow brighter than fire on ice.

The coldness lashing perennially on your skin
And shaking your bones to its final breakage,
Couldn't beat the absolute zero amity between these strangers.
But your fascination has enough radiation
To melt the tip of the iceberg
And shine over what's behind their opaque walls.

Settled on the plastic seats that serve as time machines,
They nestle between unfamiliar bodies;
Static, in a state of inertia.
Blocking out force, resisting change;
Like cars stuck on parking mode,
Couldn't bring themselves to unload.

Grasping on loose handles
With a grip more secure than seat-belts,
Some tend to pull away despite of the constant push.
Like engines on reverse, they take time to backtrack.
For all we know, for every action,
Is an equal and opposite reaction.

The brakes hit; there goes a screeching sound.
But when it comes to a break, we don't really hang back
Or fall to a complete stop;
We only slide forward.
For we must keep moving ahead,
In order to keep our balance.

The portals once again unlock to let you out to the open galaxy
And let in another for the same adventure.
You've reached the end of the trip,
But not the end of the road; nor the destination.
For the journey is infinite; you know you are going to ride again and again,
Until you've run out of wishes of where you want to be where.
#18, Jan.18.13
Miss Clofullia Feb 2016
Making all the small mistakes,
we move on, from one gig to another,
with our head up-high,
and our ear glued to the railroad track.
We walk backwards, surrounded by defective traffic signals
and multi-toned car horns – an impersonal Trojan toy horse,
with too much space inside our frameless carcass
to be filled by an empty soul.
Cody Haag Jan 2016
Abscond from your digital world,
Fall into the rhythm offered by Mother Earth;
Bathe in the glory apparent before you,
Endeavor to obtain a new birth.

To think one is living,
One must go through the motions;
To know one is living,
One must see the valleys, forests, and oceans.

A man spends days inside his home,
Completely and utterly alone;
Sometimes he delivers messages
Or uses his telephone.

Yet even then he is so integrated;
So controlled by technology.
Thoreau thought no man could live such a life,
And still be considered free.

"We do not ride on the railroad;
It rides upon us - "
These words from Thoreau
We need to wholly trust.

The creator is often imprisoned
By the creations he has birthed;
I think a life so wasted
Has very little worth.
Railroad tracks along the Keystone Line
Gleamed with a copper luster under light
From the Dog Star and the solstice moon.

Those slivers of metal became more valuable
After they were squished by the weight of train cargo
And blessed by the red light of the railroad crossing.

The coins we minted weren’t trinkets
We could spend at the general store.
They didn’t belong to the government.
We created a currency for our neighborhood.

We stockpiled them in mason jars,
Traded them for boyhood commodities,
And made necklaces for our girlfriends.

I can’t say when the others cashed out.
Maybe it was the day they started earning
Bigger coin in the mines and the mills.

I walk the tracks at night, searching for the
Cents we lost beneath the splintered ties.

There is a rusty coffee can in my garage
Filled with distorted faces and Lincoln memorials.
I recognize those weathered shapes
Better than my friends’ faces
This is a poem from a small collection I publish last year. If you are interested, you can find my book here:

https://www.etsy.com/listing/215383084/keystones-christian-sammartino?
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