Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The journey back is always
shorter than the one going.
The simple joy of it all,
is not always knowing
But rather taking in the sceneries,
and all the beauty it's showing.
Sa Weol May May 19
A child begging to be with his dad,
Ride a bike going to the north,
Where her cousins are there.
Sitting in the front,
She saw her dad's hands getting calluses
from an hour biking,

Still seeing her dad with happy smile,
and she don't know why,
Maybe because of the smooth road they're taking,
or the pastures they're passing by,
Trees swaying so as their hair
As they contradicts the direction of the windy day,


The ways are getting longer,
But she let her eyes to freeze on the right side,
it passes beautiful sceneries,
enough not to get boredom,
Getting to the place,
She sees her father, though tired from a long ride,
Lots of stories to talk to her grandmother,
While she plays with her cousin,


This child step
on becoming years older than before,
Realizing that memory as more than anything,
to be treasured
now she misses her dad
while she's away from them,
working for long hours
not getting enough pay,
planning to get farther to them
to earn more than enough


But whenever I gets back to that time
where I used to beg to be with my dad,
I now know why happy he is riding his bike,
I just like to be a child again and go back home now.


-A.M.
Mel May 17
I follow the red road
To freedom
I follow the yellow flowers
To my psat
I follow the green clovers
To my future
And I stand still to take
In the fragrance of
The blooming flowers
And dancing clovers
And the earthy red road
For my present
17 - 05 - 2021
Mark Wanless Apr 30
dead lizard on the
tumultuous road i croak
under the machine
Juhlhaus Apr 8
The highway changes when you travel it
At different times,
In different seasons,
Weathers, road conditions, or decades.
The places you pass and your final destination
Will change entirely from year to year
Or day to night.
The highway will tell you totally different things,
The signs change from year to year
And day to night.

The sky goes dark, the lights come on,
Some letters are lost, and new meaning found.
A roadside motel becomes simply a "mote,"
There is vacancy where before
There was nothing at all,
Just an abandoned fruit stand, which by twilight
Becomes a small house—
The siding might be yellow or brown—
With dark curtains and neon signs
Proffering readings, psychic insights, an open palm.

The other night, I came to the end of the highway.
I would have crashed right through the barrier
But God or my survival instinct intervened,
And my journey continued
On a different highway altogether.
Jaxey Apr 8
"I feel nothing"
she said
as she lied down
on the cold empty road
not knowing which direction to go

"what's it like"
I asked her
over the phone
while stuck in traffic
just trying to get to work
Mark Wanless Apr 3
"A Country Sunset"

Dogs bound along the road.
Hogs squeal their hunger. A toad
Flees to safety from tabby's chase.
Trees sway in the wind. Sol's face
Slowly hides behind the corn
Sleepily, till dawn reborn.
Zoe Mei Mar 27
I
it hisses, turning dessiccation
dust to wet dirt
the water’s meniscus edge conquers
gorges and gaps of pitted paved path
mortar dips between cobblestones
capillary rivulets
generals charging ahead
their advancing lines
rallied for battle
against dry death

II
the sky pours out the ocean
and drowns the bridges that connect us
Next page