"fwy" poems
When I was 16, I slept-drove in my car.
Walking outside half-naked, I pulled my keys from my underwear like it was a jean pocket.
Entering my 2001 white Pontiac, I put the keys in the ignition and drove two miles before I merged onto the 101 S FWY.
I woke up terrified and behind the wheel, not knowing where I was until I was in the next city over. I drove back immediately.
Needless to say, I would have had no explanation if my parents or the authorities had found me...
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
We are just like
Those cars that follow
Roads of long asphalt tongues
Wet from greasy rain
We are the 9 to 5
Or the 6 to 7 or 8
The never ending sloth of the mundane
Our heads shoved into pathetic cars.
Following the same stench
Rising from the same throat
As labor regurgitates
And we crawl
We are released back into the holes
We rose from.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC