"chucked" poems
*here's how it happens
the morning after
you reach into the drawer
where the your t-shirts live
to find it austere
you'll shrug because
you're still drunk
& you can't remember
when last it was
that you had something wet
or how long it's been
since you made the floorboards blush
or why the carpet is upset
who wouldn't be
the contents to the upended ashtray
strewn around the apartment
resemble the aftermath
of the smallest war
to ever take place in norfolk
some midnight thief
must've made off with the lighter
because it isn't in
any of your favorite spots
maybe you chucked it
along with a hundred other things
that make noise when they land
in the neighbors yard
you won't remember putting
the refrigerator's belongings
in the bathtub
or scrawling a buzzard
on the bedroom door
but then again who would
you'll pretend it's spring again
before putting on your winter coat
to go out front with a cigarette
in your mouth
you'll hope for a passing stranger
to *** a light from
or drag yourself to the corner
with couch cushion change
to buy a new lighter
and on your way
you won't bother looking back
this is just another day
on eggshells for no reason
another november
choking on birthday candles
on your way home
you step over beer cans
the kind you fell in love with
and wonder who
had the last laugh last night
or if anyone said a word at all
it might've been another
moment of clarity
it might have been some idiot savant
any adjective that feels like home
anything that keeps you thirsty*
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic: I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an eighteen-inch waist because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
having to choose
between eating and breathing with not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a thirty-nine inch bust and three times the forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine squeezed to a three, spending
three to nine avoiding mealtime because my weight loss book says
'Don't eat.'
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic, but...
I'm not plastic.
I've sat here listening while you complain about society but I don't think you realize that
society is made by you.
You complain about masks but you're masked by your poetry and
trust me,
it's trendy:
Psychiatry.
A bottle of capsules captures your soul and your dreams,
fading
reality.
I cannot be defined because a definition leaves no room for change and I
am a flame,
ready to burn the cardboard box of priority you put over me.
All the cool kids are lesbians and thespians on about repressions
and I care,
I do,
I mean... I'm standing here among you.
But words are just air.
You can stand on this stage and tell me I'm beautiful, but
I am more than my face so
disregard my mild distaste for your
inspirational speech.
Now, this...
This isn't a call for help.
This is a call to arms.
This
is a battle cry because
I
am sick of waiting for a future that should've happened yesterday.
So use this air to live the words you say and
rally.
Do not soothe, because we've already been cocooned by soothed reality in
Shawnee,
Johnson County.
I'm a real girl,
in a real world.
Life's fantastic, and I
refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
a neck moulded perfectly for both eating and breathing so I don't have to choose.
I refuse to be plastic,
a bust that you don't need to be sizing
when I've got eyes
a green not of romanticized meadows but of drunken
puke.
I refuse to be plastic,
a size nine foot in a size nine shoe,
spending three to nine
enjoying my meal times,
because my weight loss book is
chucked down the chute.
I'm a living girl
in a beautiful world.
Life's fantastic,
because I'm not plastic.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
Do you want a slice of cake,
might keep you going just for now.
But as you are not used to eating,
you have the hooves we'll keep the cow.
The modern world is dying younger,
unlike those in the poorer east.
Who die through lack of food and water,
we're dying because we're obese.
In this modern city arena,
it seems our portion is the more
free health and overwhelming safety
but we save that small slice for the poor.
The waste is massive, over burdened,
tons of food are chucked away.
As we stick to our sell by clearance
just think for what so many pray.
Do we need such a massive slice,
even half would fill our needs.
The west gets fat the east is wanting
scrubbing around for scraps and seeds.
So next time when feasting in McDonalds,
and washing down with large milkshake.
Try and see your own reflexion
and you'll see whom eats all the cake.
Before you leave that busy food-hall,
just have a quick look in the bin
and you will see the unholy waste,
perhaps you'll also see the sin.
The slicing of this planets cake
seems to be divided wrong.
So cut it into a fairer slices
and send it to where it belongs.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
You may think you are special
Because you are rolling in money
And have lots of boyfriends
But the reality is as different
As chalk is from cheese
A person is special
Due to his/her character
Or what s/he does
You have a personality that is so shallow
That it would put even the Kardashians to shame
And that is saying something
You do not know the first thing about friendship
And yet consider yourself an ideal friend
To one and all
While you proceed to ghost someone
Whom you've known for years and years
All because of a silly comment
On a photo of yours on social media
Someone may be your BFF one day
And turn into a mere acquaintance the next day
For you, people are like bubblegum wrappers
To be used and thrown at a moment's notice
Of course, as we all know
There's no point in breaking your head over people
Especially in a our rather fickle-minded society
But when you act all high and mighty
As though you're always right
And everyone else is wrong
It really gets my goat
Again, you may think you are special
Based on money, good looks or the number of boyfriends you have
But all these will get you nowhere in life
Because, there will be a time
When you are in desperate need of help
And you will find
That the only people who can be of use
Are the ones whom you've already chucked
Nov 24, 2022
Nov 24, 2022 at 11:53 AM UTC
A thousand tumbles takes a bottle in the sea-
a thousand dashes and whirls and swoops.
A million grains of sand takes that bottle in the sea,
to break apart, to come to me
in fragments like a snowflake fractal.
How many mermaid miles till she hands that glass to me?
For I've taken out my very-ness, for you.
- And my crossness.
My judgement and wrath.
I've taken out slight hot breathe
(for you to melt the ice on your whiskers.)
I've taken out my toes when they are reaching for yours in the cavernous blanket world through the forest of our lazy limbs.
I've taken out my righteousness
and my second guessing.
I've taken out for you (a surprise, I was going to surprise you!)
all the times you were going to be wrong to me-
and to wrong me...
taken them out to sea, you see?
In that bottle, pretty bottle. Broken now like too many vows.
I've taken out my knowing best and finding better.
I've taken out the half moon of your thumbnail as well
...I will miss that in my night sky-
(perhaps I'll keep that after all.)
I'll take out the complacency of holding your hand getting out of a chair.
and the mindless strokes
as you explain
my commonplace crazy
to
simpler minds-
I'll take out the very-ness of me, and the we-ness of us.
and fill a bottle with a the brine of a thousand tears from hundred slights not slighted quite yet.
I fill the bottle and gift the sea
with the softness of you and the brashness of me.
A thousand turnabouts it takes to reach you on the beach,
a sea glass diamond ring, engage me you engaging man-
and the tides tickles my feet in anticipation, marry me. marry me.
just a sea glass promise
for a mermaid bride
waiting for the sailor man to sing her sweetly with salt on his lips
Just a sea glass lullaby from the man who loves me so.
Marry me, marry me
And we drink sparkling water from a sea glass flute
and we drink all the us and we drink all the we
for sea glass could never hold a second in,
sea glass is far too vain not to shine in the sun fanning
your invite out in a spectrum of color that
a small child's hand creates when he holds it up to the rays.
Spills out all of my intentions
Spoiled child, loved child,
Spills out all of my intentions carelessly on the sandy floor for the tides to swallow whole.
My sea glass prism chucked unceremoniously back to sea
and me the mermaid bride left at her own alter...
But a seashell to your ear and her my wailing sorrow calls,
'marry me, sailor. marry me.'
sahn 8/5/14
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
The narcissistic urge flips eggs now.
Our ex-veteran father-figure gets a hamster, calls it Snuffles.
The thing you don’t know until the end of the script of the Tarantino-twist is that our protagonist sits
rocking back and forth in
a barren room inside a strait-jacket.
Meanwhile, our enemy shouts
something along the lines of:
"grab a spoon
I hope they don’t wash their hands"
The stones fallen off their strings,
gunshots hotwire themselves away from
a dubstep kind of drilling, the pipe dream
of an intimate email relationship.
Shout again,
"I hope you never feel those clammy hands.
Blaarghh"
Your diner eggs stink
I chucked up
In the kitchen bin.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 12:43 PM UTC
Seven in a week,
Disgusting, she hears you say,
The first one, well he maybe the last,
This one left religion chucked upon her path.
She loved very him much, just because she could.
He made her feel,
So relaxed, extreme tranquility.
The second one,
He gave her a super blast,
The third.
She loved him rapidly, with blazing renewed passion,
The third one was very hot, yesterday's one became forgot,
Had nothing much to offer her, so she washed him out of hair,
The fourth one he was wonderful,
She got half way through and then they stopped,
Gave up for the day.
The fifth one, he was noisy, he made too much racket,
****** fellow, just wanted to be one of the boys,
Got up and left without even goodbye,
Just shoved his finger in her eye.
Made her tears flow,
Only one more of them to go.
Very nearly over, had enough of them,
the days of the week so pleasantly displayed as flipping men.
Last one round was Saturday, a nothing much the matter day!
The end of the week brings with it relief!
(c) Livvi
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC
I’m a Barbie girl
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic! I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an 18-inch waist
because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
a neck so slender I have to choose
between eating and breathing;
there’s not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a 38-inch bust and
3-times the average amount of forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine shoe squeezed to a three,
spending three to nine avoiding meal time
because my weight-loss book says,
“Don’t eat.”
I’m a Barbie girl,
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic, but I’m
not plastic.
Bile tastes all too organic,
its taste chasing after me
if I exceed my daily nutritional limit of
2,000 calories.
I’m skinny enough that people think I’m healthy.
I’m not skinny enough for people to think I’m unhealthy.
Anorexia is as familiar as the back of my hand,
poised like a gun to the back of my throat,
waiting and ready to blow.
I’m a sixteen-year-old suicide case,
product of the war of production,
wearing battle wounds in the form of uniform lines
across the tops of my thighs.
I’ve been rewriting this poem since its conception.
I feel like the rough draft: concision is key.
(Be smaller.)
I’m trying rewriting,
trying to leave out things that aren’t
important enough, like:
four of my ribs
and my esophagus
and my stomach
and my small intestine.
I’m testing the limits of realism.
But here’s the thing:
I’m a real girl
in a real world.
Life’s not always fantastic,
but I am not plastic.
I am not plastic.
I refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range
based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
eating and breathing
like both are vital aspects to living.
I refuse to be plastic,
an actual hip-to-bust ratio
for not a thirty-year-old but a teenager.
I refuse to be plastic,
shoe size nine in size nine shoes,
trying to start enjoying mealtimes
because my “weight-loss book”
has been chucked down the chute.
I’m a living girl
in a terrifying world,
trying to remind myself that “Life in Plastic!”
is not fantastic.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 8:00 PM UTC
I'll ask you not to turn off the lights,
I want them to blind me
with their brilliant filaments
until the bulbs break
like a vase on a tiled floor,
the walls, the door go back
to being charcoal black
as they have been so many times before.
I have started to abhor
the roads that define me,
the words that describe me
and my traits,
the way I must walk in wintery air
to a migraine inducing wilderness
to be squashed into old moulds,
will this be adequate for you now and when?
What is this fall,
does it affect you, your actions,
your jumbled jigsaw piece thoughts?
These bruises are purple,
this brain is strained,
inject me with zest
until my wrist pains
so much it must combust.
Out of the glass is nothing,
a candyfloss cloud, a tree, a lawn,
it bores me,
an artist is needed,
paint a new canvas
swathed in colour
and things from my weekend dreams
lucid and intense.
I am a ******* up ball
of paper, unfold me, still legible?
Fold it again, an airplane
chucked into an angry breeze
or please,
if the lamps are tough enough,
watch my words illuminate,
drool across the table.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
For free, but hardly costless,
for you big lollipop suckers,
c a u s e,
every time I breathe in some atmosphere,
outcome these up chucked integers and alphabets to poll-
-ute the remaining "good air," which isn't i know very fait fair,
but would you rather this thin poesy lighter-than-whipped cream and
jello shaking handshaking easy eating than all that other stuff I obsess
about in no particular order, like life and death, counting my re-main-
lining breaths, love 'n like, awesome vs. trite, hot love and cold po-
-tatoe mustardy salad, punch and paunch, my endless declination into febrile old age and the wasting away processes most unfortunate,
that fuels a trillion dollar healthcare IN-dustry (midwest pro-nun-she-ate-sean), vitamins and supplements, manufactured in contaminated
factories in the farout east, that are not usda grade A, unless mixed with good **** and to hell with this graffiti wordley ***** even i'm
fed up from writing all this serious stuff, and Brother Leonard,
who is always very ****** says
fkinA, halle-lou-y'all
the end is near***
Sep 6, 2025
Sep 6, 2025 at 10:17 PM UTC
I don't speak spaceman she said with a grin.
When into the craft she went.
Was parked on the grass at the rear of her tent.
There met an alien ugly as sin.
Invited her in to join him for gin.
Or maybe a game of rummy.
Neither one could understand.
Non-verbal communication ensued.
They had a hug and laid on the rug.
When sipping their gin.
The two of them,
The alien invader, ugly as sin.
And maiden fair who chucked her hand in.
By ladylivvi1
© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
Her bed wouldn't release her,
Despite the alarm clock's vicious bite,
had a late one last night,
hey, Jenna,
Mother called,
time to get up honey,
get your *** moving,
and I'll chuck you some money,
maybe get you fast food breakfast,
won't tell you again,
that time was the last.
Jenna fell out of bed,
chucked on her clothes,
looked like a clothes horse,
with a pierced nose,
She wiped on her daily slap,
told the world that school was crap,
wiped on a phoney grin,
Mamma said she must go in,
In a very loud voice,
She spouted,
only thing worth having,
was not education,
but in her classes gangs of boys.
Had enough of dictatorial teachers,
she could still hang out in bed,
learning from dreams,
instead,
She so hated mother's nagging,
practised in old bagging,
She had no yearning for learning,
all she wants to do is sleep!
(C) Livvi
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 5:46 AM UTC
I am just a city girl, I'm calling up at city lights.
The daily roar of traffic, unsettling on this chilly Tuesday night.
I am frightened by my shadow, as sunlight comes around.
I ran along the pathway outside my darkened house.
Heard a creature snuffling, perhaps it was a mouse.
Then my lovely carer crept outside the bungalow.
Oh no, my shuffler got trod on.
She thought it was the discarded head of a tatty old brush.
A broom head, chucked out in the gloom.
It was a little hedgehog.
Poor creature creeping around in the dark.
Went indoors.
Found a torch.
The pig of the hedge had gone.
My carer told me she felt guilty.
I said she need not be.
As the hedgehog, scared by heavy feet.
Was up the pathway nibbling meat.
The meat was meant for me.
(c)LIVVI
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:21 AM UTC
cast out
chucked away
deep-sixed
discarded
discharged
disposed of
expelled
flung aside
thrown down
jettisoned
deserted
jilted
vacated
left in abdication
aggravated
outcast
rejected
eliminated
forgotten
given up
godforsaken
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 11:02 AM UTC
He puts it out there, the Schrödinger’s cat of invitations.
Now, I’m irritated. “I TOLD you I don’t have time for.. involvement.”
“But you have to eat - so eat with ME,” he shrugs. “You can build a friendship with someone and still have freedom.” His observation was casual, as though it were unrelated to anything between us. He seemed to have the intuition that I’d balk if pressed.
“You’re subversive.” I said. “Why me? There are prettier girls, more agreeable, fun girls. I feel like I’m on the edge here,” I look around to indicate the room, the environment, the university. “And I can be a complete as-hole.”
He looked a little offended, “You’re interesting, I like what I know about you and, yeah, we can all be as-holes - we’re in a pool of “A” types, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“What do you KNOW about me?” I ask.
“I’ve read some of your writings,” he looked thoughtful, “I may know a little about how you think, It’s unusual.. interesting.”
I’m shocked and I squirm, “You looked me up?”
“I looked you up.” he nodded, “to be sure you’re not an axe murderer.”
“How much did you read?” I asked, wheedling, my inner-writer engaging.
“Tell you at dinner - YOU name the date and time,” he smiled.
“My idea of “dinner” is walking to a dining hall, picking up a bag of food, bringing it back here and taking ten minutes to eat it between chapters,” I warned.
“I have a meal card,” he says, jiggling his student lanyard.
“We’ll see.” I said. “Have you talked to anyone else about my writing?”
“No,” he answered, “Why?”
“Please don’t, I have to think about it.” I say. As far as I know, no one I know in RL has read me - it’s an odd feeling - like maybe he got ahold of my diary. I haven’t worried over the fact that someone I’m in physical proximity to could look me up. That all this stuff is actually out there.
“Don’t think my misgivings can be cajoled away,” I say, “no more talking.”
He chucked but we got back to studying.
Nov 16, 2021
Nov 16, 2021 at 10:21 PM UTC
Shall I open volley,
spike with clenched hand?
Acquiesce to athleticism,
or drop return?
Is there a score?
numbers imply a plan,
encumbered; ******** clad...
jockstraps and leather,
tube socks and man.
****** courts,
exotic terminology,
words of reduction,
redacted, redacted, redacted!
under spells of seduction...
What more?
Who the **** cares.
Piles can be chucked,
and strip smiles, 1 grain at a time,
throw a bone, throw another,
you'll build your own monster.
What more?
redacted, redacted, redacted!
join me down below...
I'll give you history,
it will set everything aglow.
What more?
**** more.
Questions?
redacted; for your own security.
Not Goliath,
not even Iago... wait, that may be whom you cast!
Laughter man, so much laughter,
I grow darker;
a product of your mind; that's just a reminder.
Had I plotted, had I connived,
had I been...
trolling gutters,
sexing the populace,
setting parties to war?
You gave me the part,
and the act was in pantomime...
improbable for paralysis
severed spine,
redacted, redacted, redacted.
You set loose scenarios,
and now I willingly oblige...
I'll take my bow,
and cunning smile.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 6:19 PM UTC
Journal entry#11
My mom is my best friend.
She's wise beyond her years.
Today I came to her with tears.
I said, "mother why am I suffering."
I could hear her smile through the phone as she gently replied...
"Without suffering there would be no compassion."
I chucked through my tears and said, "Tell that to the ones who are currently suffering mom."
Her voice softened even more as she responded with so much love,
"Without suffering my sweet daughter how would we ever know joy?"
I love you mom
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 12:33 AM UTC
Bees nest chucked into a limousine
OCD's introduced to the filth and strobe lighting
I used to be a good kid.
But the suburbs got me.
Stripped away my hope, my individuality
crammed me into a high school
with 45 blacks,
20 Asians
and only about... 3,000 white run-of-the-mill
Shaler-Bubble kids
(All of whom thought, by the way, that being Catholic
was exotic) ,
and made to eat the **** of nothing to do.
It came out in nightmares
their bad behavior
that I stood for
touched and beaten by boys
I bared it
ostracized and devoured
last year I came into my stride
but do you have PTSD?
Can you look into the eyes of another man
without wondering how to **** him?
Do you want to hurt the people you love
because you fear,
no, you know,
they will **** you?
A whirl wind of insanity.
What was precarious
was pushed.
No ma'am,
the suburbs got me,
and I'm a burn out by the road
fingers dripping with paint and my own blood
and smudged with ink
I'll drink in your pity
whiskey on my mind
thank you
pass another flask of it
no drug makes me feel alive quite like asprin
maybe love, I guess
don't know how I got that, ma'am
the suburbs got me
maybe I can get out.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
Just because I’m reclusive, doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Above you stand only second-hand crossword puzzles chucked by gods, their errors in ink. The newsprint covers your head and you fill in some blank squares to make words shorter, how you want them to be. If you had your way, you’d be a philosophy major. You’d submerge yourself in knowledge like a child who spiraled from heaven via twirly slide in a pit of plastic ***** Your way would lead to fortune cookies filled with morbid maxims and hand-picked lucky numbers because computers are so impersonal. You’d call the absence of ignorance death; but until then, bathroom wall banter must do. **** what goes on in bathroom stalls. I touch myself in a public restroom thinking of you, my eagerness a shaken bottle of ginger ale. Two hours later, they start peering in the stall, asking if I’m alright in there. I feel the way I did when Jessica Serber ripped out my braid in second grade when we were playing Marco Polo. I told Coach Fish and she asked, “What am I supposed to do? Glue it back on?” I hated her ever since. And yet it’s not just hatred, but also fear, like the fear of killing spiders in case their family chooses to avenge them. I can never get over it; I can never live it down. So forgive me for never telling you this. Forgive me for never telling you much of anything. Just because I’m reclusive, doesn’t mean I don’t love you. But if one day you decide to leave me, I’ll hire a hustler who looks just like you.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 9:47 AM UTC
In Corsets and Crinoline.
Tight lady in bones of whales wrapped!
Bustling out from behind.
Corset gripping at wasted skin.
Skirt stood as parachute.
For lovelorn lady who cried.
Dropped by her lover.
She wanted to die.
In a fashion of air filled hoops.
Laced up in corsets of bone.
Took sweet ladies breath away.
Trendy fashion of the day.
Chucked herself from bridge so high.
Spurned lady the wind caught her bustle,
So did she fly?
The trussed Victorian lady.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
Poignant prose chucked out and recycled by morning.
Turned out trick repeated til boring.
The local band just started touring.
Sonnet's blasted until the ladies are 'whooring'.
...
Roxy Music dropped David Byrne.
For Ellie Goulding and a remix of burn.
Robert Johnson's been reworked.
Ratatat rap as interest is perked.
Dylan picked up the silent game.
Making ambient noises which all sound the same.
The Rolling Stones joined the church.
After buying some of Hoosier's merch.
Nicki Minaj claps her ****
Laying down a tribute for Terry Fox's stump.
Benefit concert soon to be run.
By the played out Glee Club composing Fun.
Beach Boys dragged in with the tide.
...And Stars Collide.
NOFX has gone clean
Fat Mike's gone and become a dean.
Tom Waits stomps out to Kendrick Lamar.
Hacking up bits of blunt induced tar.
Bumping out in Steve Ellison's car.
To Captain Murphy's karaoke bootlegged from a bar.
...
Less than 10 good tapes a year
Even fewer if referring to those others actually hear.
Jack White's gone third eye blind
Getting over run by his drug free mind.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
Sweet lady in bones of whales wrapped!
Bustling out from behind.
Corset gripping at wasted skin.
Skirt stood as parachute.
For lovelorn lady who cried.
Dropped by her lover.
She wanted to die.
In a fashion of air filled hoops.
Laced up in corsets of bone.
Took sweet ladies breath away.
Trendy fashion of the day.
Chucked herself from bridge so high.
Spurned lady the wind caught her bustle,
So did she fly?
The trussed Victorian lady.
(c) Livvi x
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
We grew up on the same street,
We blew dandelions into the sky.
We chucked shells into the blue sea,
Wondering what it would be like.
To grow older.
I came back to the same street,
It's not the same without you.
I can still hear the sound of your feet,
I can hear mine too.
Wish we didn't have to grow older.
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 6:00 AM UTC
Inside cockpit command control, a proud young captain sits fiddling with his tie. Out on the runway, a parade of boisterous holiday makers stream through a wall of steamy-sticky heat.
A scraping of cases amid jubilant faces, as they flock to their seats in frantic fashion. Offering warm greetings, the sun spreads its orange glow; kissing the face of many a passenger.
Raucous voices become feeble mutterings, drowned by roaring engines. Knuckles white as chalk from clenched fists: an anxiety that is to be short-lived.
We ascend to the clouds, above motorways and mountains; entering an endless wash of blue. Smiles chucked around like confetti bringing a sense of: new opportunity, hope and adventure. As we rise above.
Jul 10, 2021
Jul 10, 2021 at 1:29 PM UTC