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Gossamer Jul 2013
I'd always thought you were just a pretty face

a beautiful smile gone to waste

hooked on drugs

and lost from love

I'd always known you were a runaway



I'd always thought that you were a tease

'till I read those words that terrified me

because they were incredible

and beautiful

and they were written by a runaway



You're so close to perfect

and I'd tell you why

but right about now

you're probably high

a beautiful disaster

you're like a slant rhyme

and no matter how hard I try

I can't let myself get away from you

you teenage runaway

I want to run away with you



Shame on me for assuming you weren't smart

now i'm dodging the danger, the poison darts

'cause you're so close to everything

that i think i might need



Shame on me for writing this song

it doesn't feel right, and I know that it's wrong

and i wouldn't dare to believe

that what I dream could be a reality



you're so close to perfect

and I'd tell you why

but right about now

you're probably high

a beautiful disaster

you're like a slant rhyme

and no matter how hard I try

I can't let myself get away from you

you teenage runaway

I want to run away with you



I don't understand you

but I want to

and I want you to know

that I don't give a ****

what you do when you're alone

because I don't want you to be alone



You're such a mystery

you've got a hook on half of me

I'm not sure what i'm seeing when our eyes meet

but i'm praying, i'm praying that it could be

the chance i promised i'd take one day



You're so close to perfect

and I'd tell you why

but right about now

you're probably high

a beautiful disaster

you're like a slant rhyme

and no matter how hard I try

I can't let myself get away from you

you teenage runaway

I want to run away with you



You and your contradictions

you imperial affliction

you teenage runaway

I want to run away with you
Mackenzie Vieth Jun 2013
She's a little runaway.
never had much to say but-
one thing's for sure,
she's gonna make it somewhere, someday.

She's a little runaway.
never spoke up about his evil ways but-
one thing's for sure.
she's gonna make him pay, somehow, some way.

She's a little runaway.
never stopped dreaming about a better him but-
one thing's for sure,
she's gonna get a real man of her own,
and he's out there waiting, someplace.

She's a little runaway,
she's off the path, she's gone astray.
her original plans have all fallen away.
because of a new face, but
one thing's for sure,
they don't matter to her anymore anyways-
plans are for those who stay.
and she can't stand anymore pain.

So she starts to run away like always,
from the past, from all those tear-filled days-
when a new someone,
a new face,
grabs her wrist and asks her,
to stay.

But she's a little runaway.
he can't tame the spirit who refuses to be tamed.
so together,
they run away.
pookie Oct 2014
I want to runaway,
I want to runaway,
Anyway from here,
I want to lose control,
I want to let go of all the strings,
Let go of all the emotions,
I want to runaway,
And be free,
I want to runaway,
Be free of all this.
Theresa M Rose Jun 2014
Runaway, runaway,
Runaway home.

Alone in a crowd;
No place to be alone.

So far… from familiar;
The familiar is never here.

The familiar is a dream
A nightmare… I fear.

Alone… in the darkness.
Alone… in a crowd.

Heart’s forever screaming
The silence is… too loud.
Motions and smiles
People strolling …along the bay.
They walk all around me
But, I hear not… a word they say.

Runaway, runaway,
no place… but alone.

Alone in a crowd.

Alone;
And… on my own.
Miss runaway is her name
Her hair is whipped in the wind
A necklace in her hand
Holding it out
Allowing it to sway
A gift from home
Where there was farmland
Now she’s standing on the sand
Her feet feeling the cold water

The daughter
of a farmer
There was a man
Who made her face get hotter
But her feet got cold
She ran away
Without a plan
She could have been
A Mrs. Smith
She choose to be
Miss Runaway
A no-good runaway
She can never stay
Look at her walk
Into that church

Little girl
Get on your knees
Pray
Our eyes on you
We are hawks
We stalk
Prey

You’re our next meal
“You can’t heal
Let us take the pain
We can make a deal”
Don’t strain
Miss runaway
You can’t runaway now

“Miss runaway
Do you know how,
How have you
become chow?
Little advice
You can’t runaway
Not from fear
You can try
But it will only eat you alive”
Mari-Elle Nov 2014
He fell in love with a walking hurricane
Putting a face to heartache as a name
She had a war going on inside her brain
She never knew that he'd love her all the same

'Cause fractured pieces
Can still make art
And wine will never cure a mistake
But choker chains
Made out of self restraints
Were worn by this runaway train

She was a runaway train
Christian zeal Jan 2014
Dream after dream and there's a lot,
Please after please until he got up and ran out...

Ever sense that day my feet been free of old routs,
Old shouts and too much of digging except climbing out.

Oh I loved how the chains became my mouth and the dirt was the best way to sleep with dead things that never would speak out.

They blow trees now just get away
Without even running somewhere to make there demons shake,
I have broken the curse and every way of baracade I break like I'm the gate!
Whoever needs to just leave there's always an escape...
I open the door to a new place when I fall down stop what I'm doing and PRAY.

Hope somebody will listen to me....>.>


You can stay here
Runaway
Leave from town
Runaway
You can hold on
Runaway
Stand your ground
Runaway
If you don't take your chances there's no way you'll never know..
Jesica Dittemore Aug 2015
The day was black
Her heart blacker
She hesitated
Her hands poised over the drawer
She knew what it held
She knew it would hurt
But she opened it
Pulling out the contents
She dropped them in the bag.
Moving on she packed her duffel
Opening her phone she dialed his number
“I’m ready, be down in five.”
Dragging the bags to the window
She dropped them out
Tumbling after them.
And running down the lane
She jumped in the back seat
Knuckle touch for her man
Tire’s screamin away they ran
Now she’s gone, she’s long gone
She’s a runaway, a ***** lil runaway
She’s a runaway, a ***** lil runaway
And she ain’t neva comin’ back.
Yes I know this contains song lyrics. I was like...twelve.
Diana Huddleston Feb 2017
Runaway from those friends that cut you slowly,
They said they'd have you but you're left with nobody,
Runaway from those Hi's, Hello's, and See you later's,
That never amount to anything, Isn't that a funny thing,
They call you fake and a ghost, one of the things you hate most,
All of this criticism is only a realism to themselves,
So **** it, see them in Seven Hells.

Runaway your heart is pounding,
Your family is clouding,
All of your surroundings,
They're always frowning,
Crazy you must be sounding,
Why are they constantly hounding,
Can't they see you're drowning,
But that's fine deal,
We've developed a method to never just feel,
We've constructed a formula to differentiate the faulty from real.

Runaway from the person they told you to be,
Runaway from the past you can't see,
You have to face it, there's no chance of erasing,
The blood and the violence, that's hidden underneath silence,
Nobody knows what's behind closed doors, what's rotting to the core.
DC raw love Feb 2015
Our runaway thoughts of dreams
leads us to believe

Our hopes of make believe
---
Our runaway fainting thoughts of life
leads us to search and denial

With a fight chance in life
---
Our runaway thoughts of deliverance
Only leads us to

A runaway fire
jeffrey conyers Jul 2013
Little runaway.
Trying to get away.
Which only multiple the troubles coming your way.

Just picture this.
All the missing kids that did the same thing.
Some get ****.
Others get pregnant.
Or turn tricks just to survive.
Some had a choice.
Others wasn't too lucky.

Law enforcement out in force.
Trying to find the little runaway.

Parents in distress.
Which is where the path begins.
To why they runaway?

Yes, some are stern.
Others, are very firm.
When there's no need to be.
If you learn to talk and face the reality of things.

It's a total shame.
To lay all the blame on the little runaway.
Until you get to the bottom of many things.

A child has a voice.
That needs to be listen too.
And it is up to us to try to figure out.
Just, why they ran away.
Adriean New Jul 2014
Come with me, lets runaway darling.
Let's get out of this old town,
& see what comes our way.

Grab nothing princess, let us just go.
Our whole world is a show.

We can fall in love in Paris,
or roam the streets in Venice.

We'll sleep in the hills of Tennessee,
& wake up & see the sun in your eyes.

Come & run away with me, darling.
The world is our destination.
Ruthie Jul 2014
I think if I woke up next to you
I'd beg to runaway.
Robert Andrews Feb 2017
She was a small town runaway
looking for a bigger world
but the city lights, arn't very nice
to curious little girls
and the creep in the car
said he'd take her so far
but he took her all the way
Still you can't stay young
when you're on the run
and ya haven't got a penny to pay
Runaway
Milk carton memories
like the graves in Flanders' Fields
stretching to the distant sunset
so tragically surreal


Runaway, don't get in that car
Ambers' rarely make it home
little girl why'd you roam
The secondary scene
is where most will die
Now it's too late
It's much too late
It's too late, for you, to cry
Runaway


He's got filthy fingers
from his ***** dreams
of girls in their skirts
and their too tight jeans
He'll take you and break you
'til you don't cry any more
and then he'll **** you
you've become just a *****
Runaway
Predators prey
Won't be goin' home again
You'll never get back
what he takes from you
You're a milk carton photograph
no one knew
And Amber....He won't stay
to choke on the ashes
of a runaway


Milk carton memories
so tragically surreal
stretching to the distant sunset
Ambers' Flanders' Fields
Little girl...kneel by your bed and pray
You never ever hear him choking
On the ashes of a runaway

Roosty
Q May 2014
Nothing made as much sense
As wind beneath my wings
As I ran from trials and tribulations
And felt so beautifully free.

Nothing made sense
As much as tears on my cheeks
As I wrote one last letter
To set me finally free.

Nothing made as much sense
As a lung clean of smoke
As I gathered my belongings
And left a place I called home.

Nothing made sense
Until I decided not to stay
Accepting my cowardly title
I'm little more than a runaway.
If I wrote you a song
would you runaway with me
would you come along

If I wrote about you
and all that makes you special
Will you runaway with me too

Would it help you to see you
and all your little flaws
as beautiful, the way I do

If I wrote a letter
and sealed it with a kiss
would it make you feel any better

If I took a picture of you
and showed you your smile
would you believe its beauty to be true

And if you ever lost your way
I'd help you to find it
even if it took all day

And I know you don't want this poem to end
So just say when...
Beauties, have ye seen this toy,
Called Love, a little boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blind;
Cruel now, and then as kind?
If he be amongst ye, say?
He is Venus' runaway.

She that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kiss,
How or where herself would wish:
But who brings him to his mother,
Shall have that kiss, and another.

He hath marks about him plenty:
You shall know him among twenty.
All his body is a fire,
And his breath a flame entire,
That, being shot like lightning in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

At his sight, the sun hath turned,
Neptune in the waters burned;
Hell hath felt a greater heat;
Jove himself forsook his seat:
From the centre to the sky,
Are his trophies reared high.

Wings he hath, which though ye clip,
He will leap from lip to lip,
Over liver, lights, and heart,
But not stay in any part;
But if chance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himself in kisses.

He doth bear a golden bow,
And a quiver, hanging low,
Full of arrows, that outbrave
Dian's shafts; where, if he have
Any head more sharp than other,
With that first he strikes his mother.

Still the fairest are his fuel.
When his days are to be cruel,
Lovers' hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest blood:
Naught but wounds his hands doth season,
And he hates none like to Reason.

Trust him not; his words, though sweet,
Seldom with his heart do meet.
All his practice is deceit;
Every gift it is a bait;

Not a kiss but poison bears;
And most treason in his tears.

Idle minutes are his reign;
Then, the straggler makes his gain
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have ye think them joys:
'Tis the ambition of the elf
To have all childish as himself.

If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him.
Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him;
Since you hear his falser play,
And that he's Venus' runaway.
Deneka Raquel Jun 2014
I want to runaway,
Far into the oceans.
Into the abyss of waters,
The unexplored depts of
Undiscovered species of fish
And devouring monsters.

I want to runaway,
Maybe to Africa in the forests.
Where wolves, dogs and dragons roam.
Make a tent out of straw and mud,
And all it my home.
Spend the rest of my life alone.

I want to runaway.
Maybe to the snow clad- region of
The Himalayan mountains,
Or to the frozen poles of the earth.
Stand to the highest peaks,
Without any clothes
So my limbs can freeze ,
Till they look like plastic manikins.

I want to run away,
Take up permanent residence on mars,
Or the moon,
Or maybe on the sun.
Far away from earth as possible,
Because If I stay here,
You'll just be a village away,
A city away...
A country away...
Maybe a continent and it wont be enough,
I'll still spend each night thinking of you.

I want to runaway.
Maybe to another galaxy,
Maybe here exists parallel universe
Where I can escape.
One where there are actually super heros
That wear spandex and capes.
One where happily ever after's are real,
And you know exactly how I feel.

I want to runaway.
Escape this reality to wear stars align.
I would bend and twist,
Or manipulating time.
Abuse any available strength I can find,
Just to get you out of my mind.
Not even sure if this is poem... I really feel this way.
Bunhead17 Sep 2014
Verse 1:]
Running away, I'm running away
Cupid ain't **** throw the gun in my way
Bullets spit in my face, tears fall from the sky
What a beautiful frown it has kept me alive
Seeking for an answer but I feel like I'm far
Runaway ***** with a rebellious heart
What a dangerous game, hope you walk out now
'Cause love is a ***** and she talks out loud
Wish I was the type to maybe open my heart
Said it from the start **** it's cold and it's dark
So what, lust me or lust me not
**** trust and feelings, I trust my block

[Hook: x2]
Guns to the sky, runaway brides
I thought I told you thugs don't cry
I'm on my queen ****
I'm on my queen ****

[Verse 2:]
Hitting the ground, I be hitting the ground
Escaping what's left I ain't trying to be found
Say it's my fault for dishonouring love
But tell me I've been smart all along as a ****
I ain't taking a chance you get the peace for me
Love rips you apart and it's so easy to see
So **** young and naive, **** looking for me
'Cause thugs don't cry can't be waiting for me
Loyal to rap, I'm only loyal to rap
Sending me love, I'm just gonna send her *** back
So tell me, lust me or lust me not
**** trust and feelings, I trust my block

[Hook: x2]
Guns to the sky, runaway brides
I thought I told you thugs don't cry
I'm on my queen ****
I'm on my queen ****
jeffrey conyers Apr 2014
Who can you trust?
When you're a young runaway.
Not the man trying to lend you a helping hand.
Hoping to **** you the next day.

I would advise you to go home, go home.
Things will look better in the coming days.
It just the moment of confusion that has you lost.

Who can you confide in?
Hoping they understand, what's bothering you?
When you're a runaway.

If you turn to law enforcement.
The odds are great you'll be returned.
Without them investigating the reasons you ran away.

The system sometimes fails you.
When you're only wishing , they would assist you.
When you're a young runaway.

I would advise you to return, to return to solve your conflicts.
Sometimes adults has to learn the hard way.

Cold nights.
Warm days.
Hungry for a taste of food.
That you'll beg anyone that comes your way.

Who can you trust?
When you're a runaway.


Don't be a written article in the obituaries.
Where many often seem to want to ask questions?
Go home, go home.
This would be my advice.

Then I've never been in your shoes to feel your pain.
Aashna Unadkat Jan 2015
Distance, the sole aim, 
Far away from anyone she ever knew
Some sugar, some spice
Some difference
Something erratic and unpredictable
Unseen to her eyes, unheard of to her ears,
A newness, to contrast the
Monotony that is routine.
Perhaps a thrill of people actually
Missing her presence,
Couple with an anonymity,
An emancipation from having to 
Conform
To the rules of where she belonged.
The runaway face of a vagabond,
Searching, searching for somewhere
To trash the label that
People had already  plastered to her identity.
Masked under a smile,
Prepared to be whoever she wanted 
To be;
Finally fulfilling dreams 
That were otherwise shackled 
By chains of her own ipseity, 
By words she never said
But were quoted as hers anyways.
The runaway face of a stranger now,
Tasting tears that those who loved her
Would shed in her memory.
She revelled in this finality,
This realisation that hit them now
That she was gone.
As though a hidden price tag had been revealed 
As though a number had just been scanned from a 
Barcode,
For her real worth hadn’t been comprehended
By those who saw the bars of the cryptogram
As mere lines
Of varying width (moods),
Wholly existing amidst 
The conventional, yet strangely unattainable  
Black and white
That was her, and her alone,
But had now morphed
As distinct colours of a 
Different kind of light into
The runaway face of a lone victor.
Danziel Jul 2014
It's this type of imagery, attached with a dark memory
Me and you had the same chemistry
When you left you had to take a part of me
Like a piece of cake but no party please
Not to be rude, so please pardon me
My manners stay in order to support
Your last resort in this Runaway disorder
But, I'm fed up with this ******* now
Turned non supporter I will remain liberal
Cuz liberty is invisible, such a ****** tune
Your despicable, how ******* pitiful,
Something so close to mystical
Prove to be that practical, but not that magical
kind of classical ****
Give me something easy to remember like gifts from December
Though we're broke with no extra tender
and
if that's all she wrote
Please return to sender, here's something I can quote
Forgotten with a puff of that marijuana smoke

-V.v.V. Ds
Something I wrote to Kanye Wests Runaway
Awesome Annie Feb 2015
I could fill my hands with wishes.
Vials of fairy dust tucked deep in my pocket.
one day,
I might need it.
But that day I think may never come.

Prayers whispered on red stained lips,
but they drop sincerely,
with to much heart.
Silence says to much in ways I can't comprehend.

Wind says that it can take me to a place, where shadows can't haunt me.
Sorrow can't sit on my door step,
reminding me of things that want to consume to much of me.

Monsters grab me in the night.
Profanity and ****** don't mix well with whiskey.
My stomach is always twisted in knots of strangled butterflies.

I could be a runaway.
Just another face on a milk carton,
or those cluttered bulletin boards at Walmart.
I fade away so easily,
flowers in my hair and feet bare,
sunshine warming my face.
Delaney Smoke Nov 2014
‘Go, run, I’ll find you in the morning’
Green eyes flash in the night
Lips are pale
I run like you tell me to do
Like I’ve been itching to do for so long

‘I love you’
‘I know’
‘Please don’t leave me’
‘I won’t’
‘Yes you will’
“I know’

‘You’ll come back, right?’
I leave, fly to Paris
I stay up all night in the arms
Of a French stranger
I left without giving you an answer

‘Runaway, come closer”
The cliffs of Dover whisper
Emerald irises
I always come back
Only soon to leave

‘I love you, please don’t leave me’
I always come back
I leave you always
A broken heart in your chest
And broken promises on my lips

‘She’ll be back, she loves me’
I can imagine you in the dark
Tangled in the sheets
Whispering reassurances to yourself
Empty comforts

‘I love you’
I want to murmur the words
Into your neck
But we’re not seventeen anymore
And one day I won’t come back
i always leave
Sydney Victoria Sep 2012
Snow Knee Deep,
Footprints Indent The Sheer Surface,
Hoarforst Coats The Trees,
Don't Run Away From,
My Poor Human Body,
The Fraile Mess That Runs After You,
Is Not The One I Wish To Be,
Don't Run Away From Me,
I'm Still One Of You

Consciousness Regained,
Wiping Watery Eyes With Blood Stained Palms,
Dreading These Long,
17 Hour Days,
Unplugged From The Material Plain,
All I Hear,
Is Their Voices Slamming,
Against Innocent Lockers,
All I Smell Is Poisoned Berry Perfume,
All I Say,
Is One Scream,
All I Can Feel,
Is My Book Slamming On The Ground,
All I See,
Is Blurry Brick Walls,
White As The Snow I Lost My Family Upon

All I Can Feel Are Peoples Arms Around Me,
Asking If I'm Okay,
No,
Incase You Are Wondering,
All I Can Tell Myself Is,
Stop Running Away

Don't Runaway From Me Again,
I Feel All Alone,
Don't Runaway From Me Lobo,
You Are The Only True Thing I Know
Not The Best But I Feel Like Posting It
Whiskurz Jan 2013
Life is like a runaway train
Never knowing where it may lead
The curves in the track can't slow us down
For there's no way to adjust the speed

The twists and turns are enlightening
And some make a wonderful surprise
While others are sorrow and heartache
Just broken promises and lies

Though we've never seen the conductor
Our tickets have already been taken
We take our seats and close our eyes
But we never get used to the shakin'

Though we have no sure destination
We marvel at every turn
The scenery we see, is pure destiny
As we ponder the things that we learn

This runaway train that we call life
Rides on the tracks of time
And just when we think it will last forever
We reach the end of the line
1
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

2
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with
perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the
distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and
vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing
of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the
earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

3
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always ***,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of
life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well
entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not
my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every ***** and attribute of me, and of any man hearty
and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be
less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the
night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy
tread,
Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels swelling the house with
their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my
eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is
ahead?

4
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and
city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old
and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss
or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is *****, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

5
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to
you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my *****-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my
feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap’d stones, elder, mullein and
poke-****.

6
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the ******* of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

7
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know
it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and
am not contain’d between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be
shaken away.

8
The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies
with my hand.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the ****** floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol
has fallen.

The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of
the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the
clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-*****,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous’d mobs,
The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside borne to the
hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his
passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who fall sunstruck or in
fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and
give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls
restrain’d by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances,
rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them-I come and I depart.

9
The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.

I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load,
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

10
Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-****’d game,
Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my
side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle
and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from
the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck’d my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west,
the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking,
they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets
hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his
luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride
by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her
feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and
weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,
And brought water and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d
feet,
And gave him a room that enter’d from my own, and gave him some
coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting piasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass’d north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean’d in the corner.

11
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth
bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their
long hair,
Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the
sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending
arch,
They do not think whom they ***** with spray.

12
The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife
at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in
the fire.

From the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.

13
The ***** holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags
underneath on its tied-over chain,
The ***** that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and
tall he stands pois’d on one leg on the string-piece,
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over
his hip-band,
His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat
away from his forehead,
The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of
his polish’d and perfect limbs.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop
there,
I go with the team also.

In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as
forward sluing,
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.

Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what
is that you express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and
day-long ramble,
They rise together, they slowly circle around.

I believe in those wing’d purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown i
Shannen Bremner Jan 2012
Runaway Baby,
on her road to Happiness.
Runaway Baby,
trying to hide her distress.
Run, Run, Baby.
Don't you ever look back.
Don't Cry Baby,
keep your head up and heart black.
Run Away Baby,
far away from all you know.
Hush Now Baby,
I know it's hard to let go.
Keep Running Baby,
but it's starting to hurt her feet.
That's Somebody's Baby,
sleeping out on the street.
Leave Here, Baby.
You know you can't stay.
My Sweet, Sweet Baby,
you'll soon find your way.
I met him on the Amtrak line to Central Jersey. His name was Walker, and his surname Norris. I thought there was a certain charm to that. He was a Texas man, and he fell right into my image of what a Texas man should look like. Walker was tall, about 6’4”, with wide shoulders and blue eyes. He had semi-long hair, tied into a weak ponytail that hung down from the wide brim hat he wore on his head. As for the hat, you could tell it had seen better days, and the brim was starting to droop slightly from excessive wear. Walker had on a childish smile that he seemed to wear perpetually, as if he were entirely unmoved by the negative experiences of his own life. I have often thought back to this smile, and wondered if I would trade places with him, knowing that I could be so unaffected by my suffering. I always end up choosing despair, though, because I am a writer, and so despair to me is but a reservoir of creativity. Still, there is a certain romance to the way Walker braved the world’s slings and arrows, almost oblivious to the cruel intentions with which they were sent at him.
“I never think people are out to get me.” I remember him saying, in the thick, rich, southern drawl with which he spoke, “Some people just get confused sometimes. Ma’ momma always used to tell me, ‘There ain’t nothing wrong with trustin’ everyone, but soon as you don’t trust someone trustworthy, then you’ve got another problem on your hands.’”—He was full of little gems like that.
As it turns out, Walker had traveled all the way from his hometown in Texas, in pursuit of his runaway girlfriend, who in a fit of frenzy, had run off with his car…and his heart. The town that he lived in was a small rinky-**** miner’s village that had been abandoned for years and had recently begun to repopulate. It had no train station and no bus stop, and so when Walker’s girlfriend decided to leave with his car, he was left struggling for transportation. This did not phase Walker however, who set out to look for his runaway lover in the only place he thought she might go to—her mother’s house.
So Walker started walking, and with only a few prized possessions, he set out for the East Coast, where he knew his girlfriend’s family lived. On his back, Walker carried a canvas bag with a few clothes, some soap, water and his knife in it. In his pocket, he carried $300, or everything he had that Lisa (his girlfriend) hadn’t stolen. The first leg of Walker’s odyssey he described as “the easy part.” He set out on U.S. 87, the highway closest to his village, and started walking, looking for a ride. He walked about 40 or 50 miles south, without crossing a single car, and stopping only once to get some water. It was hot and dry, and the Texas sun beat down on Walker’s pale white skin, but he kept walking, without once complaining. After hours of trekking on U.S. 87, Walker reached the passage to Interstate 20, where he was picked up by a man in a rust-red pickup truck. The man was headed towards Dallas, and agreed o take Walker that far, an offer that Walker graciously accepted.
“We rode for **** near five and a half hours on the highway to Dallas,” Walker would later tell me. “We didn’t stop for food, or drink or nuthin’. At one point the driver had to stop for a pisscall, that is, to use the bathroom, or at least that’s why I reckon we stopped; he didn’t speak but maybe three words the whole ride. He just stopped at this roadside gas station, went in for a few minutes and then back into the car and back on the road we went again. Real funny character the driver was, big bearded fellow with a mean look on his brow, but I never would have made it to Dallas if not for him, so I guess he can’t have been all that mean, huh?”
Walker finally arrived in Dallas as the nighttime reached the peak of its darkness. The driver of the pickup truck dropped him off without a word, at a corner bus stop in the middle of the city. Walker had no place to stay, nobody to call, and worst of all, no idea where he was at all. He walked from the corner bus stop to a run-down inn on the side of the road, and got himself a room for the night for $5. The beds were hard and the sheets were *****, and the room itself had no bathroom, but it served its purpose and it kept Walker out of the streets for the night.
The next morning, Texas Walker Norris woke up to a growl. It was his stomach, and suddenly, Walker remembered that he hadn’t eaten in almost two days. He checked out of the inn he had slept in, and stepped into the streets of Dallas, wearing the same clothes as he wore the day before, and carrying the same canvas bag with the soap and the knife in it. After about an hour or so of walking around the city, Walker came up to a small ***** restaurant that served food within his price range. He ordered Chicken Fried Steak with a side of home fries, and devoured them in seconds flat. After that, Walker took a stroll around the city, so as to take in the sights before he left. Eventually, he found his way to the city bus station, where he boarded a Greyhound bus to Tallahassee. It took him 26 hours to get there, and at the end of everything he vowed to never take a bus like that again.
“See I’m from Texas, and in Texas, everything is real big and free and stuff. So I ain’t used to being cooped up in nothin’ for a stended period of time. I tell you, I came off that bus shaking, sweating, you name it. The poor woman sitting next to me thought I was gunna have a heart attack.” Walker laughed.
When Walker laughed, you understood why Texans are so proud of where they live. His was a low, rumbling bellow that built up into a thunderous, booming laugh, finally fizzling into the raspy chuckle of a man who had spent his whole life smoking, yet in perfect health. When Walker laughed, you felt something inside you shake and vibrate, both in fear and utter admiration of the giant Texan man in front of you. If men were measured by their laughs, Walker would certainly be hailed as king amongst men; but he wasn’t. No, he was just another man, a lowly man with a perpetual childish grin, despite the godliness of his bellowing laughter.
“When I finally got to Tallahassee I didn’t know what to do. I sure as hell didn’t have my wits about me, so I just stumbled all around the city like a chick without its head on. I swear, people must a thought I was a madman with the way I was walkin’, all wide-eyed and frazzled and stuff. One guy even tried to mug me, ‘till he saw I didn’t have no money on me. Well that and I got my knife out of my bag right on time.” Another laugh. “You know I knew one thing though, which was I needed to find a place to stay the night.”
So Walker found himself a little pub in Tallahassee, where he ordered one beer and a shot of tequila. To go with that, he got himself a burger, which he remembered as being one of the better burgers he’d ever had. Of course, this could have just been due to the fact that he hadn’t eaten a real meal in so long. At some point during this meal, Walker turned to the bartender, an Irish man with short red hair and muttonchops, and asked him if he knew where someone could find a place to spend the night in town.
“Well there are a few hotels in the downtown area but ah wouldn’t recommend stayin’ in them. That is unless ye got enough money to jus’ throw away like that, which ah know ye don’t because ah jus’ saw ye take yer money out to pay for the burger. That an’ the beer an’ shot. Anyway, ye could always stay in one of the cheap motels or inns in Tallahassee. That’ll only cost ye a few dollars for the night, but ye might end up with bug bites or worse. Frankly, I don’t see many an option for ye, less you wanna stay here for the night, which’ll only cost ye’, oh, about nine-dollars-whattaya-say?”
Walker was stunned by the quickness of the Irishman’s speech. He had never heard such a quick tongue in Texas, and everyone knew Texas was auction-ville. He didn’t know whether to trust the Irishman or not, but he didn’t have the energy or patience to do otherwise, and so Walker Norris paid nine dollars to spend the night in the back room of a Tallahassee pub.
As it turns out, the Irishman’s name was Jeremy O’Neill, and he had just come to America about a year and a half ago. He had left his hometown in Dublin, where he owned a bar very similar to the one he owned now, in search of a girl he had met that said she lived in Florida. As it turns out, Florida was a great deal larger than Jeremy had expected, and so he spent the better part of that first year working odd jobs and drinking his pay away. He had worked in over 25 different cities in Florida, and on well over 55 different jobs, before giving up his search and moving to Tallahassee. Jeremy wrote home to his brother, who had been manning his bar in Dublin the whole time Jeremy was away, and asked for some money to help start himself off. His brother sent him the money, and after working a while longer as a painter for a local construction company, he raised enough money to buy a small run down bar in central Tallahassee, the bar he now ran and operated. Unfortunately, the purchase had left him in terrible debt, and so Jeremy had set up a bed in the back room, where he often housed overly drunk customers for a price. This way, he could make back the money to pay for the rest of the bar.
Walker sympathized with the Irishman’s story. In Jeremy, he saw a bit of himself; the tired, broken traveler, in search of a runaway love. Jeremy’s story depressed Walker though, who was truly convinced his own would end differently. He knew, he felt, that he would find Lisa in the end.
Walker hardly slept that night, despite having paid nine dollars for a comfortable bed. Instead, he got drunk with Jeremy, as the two of them downed a bottle of whisky together, while sitting on the floor of the pub, talking. They talked about love, and life, and the existence of God. They discussed their childhoods and their respective journeys away from their homes. They laughed as they spoke of the women they loved and they cried as they listened to each other’s stories. By the time Walker had sobered up, it was already morning, and time for a brand new start. Jeremy gave Walker a free bottle of whiskey, which after serious protest, Walker put in his bag, next to his knife and the soap. In exchange, Walker tried to give Jeremy some money, but Jeremy stubbornly refused, like any Irishman would, instead telling Walker to go **** himself, and to send him a postcard when he got to New York. Walker thanked Jeremy for his hospitality, and left the bar, wishing deeply that he had slept, but not regretting a minute of the night.
Little time was spent in Tallahassee that day. As soon as Walker got out on the streets, he asked around to find out where the closest highway was. A kind old woman with a cane and bonnet told him where to go, and Walker made it out to the city limits in no time. He didn’t even stop to look around a single time.
Once at the city limits, Walker went into a small roadside gas station, where he had a microwavable burrito and a large 50-cent slushy for breakfast. He stocked up on chips and peanuts, knowing full well that this may have been his last meal that day, and set out once again, after filling up his water supply. Walker had no idea where to go from Tallahassee, but he knew that if he wanted to reach his girlfriend’s mother’s house, he had to go north. So Walker started walking north, on a road the gas station attendant called FL-61, or Thomasville Road. He walked for something like seven or eight miles, before a group of college kids driving a camper pulled up next to him. They were students at the University of Georgia and were heading back to Athens from a road trip they had taken to New Orleans. The students offered to take Walker that far, and Walker, knowing only that this took him north, agreed.
The students drove a large camper with a mini-bar built into it, which they had made themselves, and stacked with beer and water. They had been down in New Orleans for the Mardi Gras season, and were now returning, thought the party had hardly stopped for them. As they told Walker, they picked a new designated driver every day, and he was appointed the job of driving until he got bored, while all the others downed their beers in the back of the camper. Because their system relied on the driver’s patience, they had almost doubled the time they should have made on their trip, often stopping at roadside motels so that the driver could get his drink on too. These were their “pit-stops”, where they often made the decision to either eat or court some of the local girls drunkenly.
This leg of the trip Walker seemed to glaze over quickly. He didn’t talk much about the ride, the conversation, or the people, but from what I gathered, from his smile and the way his eyes wandered, I could tell it was a fun one. Basically, the college kids, of which I figure there were about five or six, got Walker drunk and drove him all the way to Athens, Georgia, where they took him to their campus and introduced him to all of their friends. The leader of the group, a tall, athletic boy with long brown hair and dimples, let him sleep in his dorm for the night, and set him up with a ride to the train station the next morning. There, Walker bought himself a ticket to Atlanta, and said his goodbyes. Apparently, the whole group of students followed him to the station, where they gave him some food and said goodbye to him. One student gave Walker his parent’s number, telling him to call them when he got to Atlanta, if he needed a place to sleep. Then, from one minute to the next, Walker was on the train and gone.
When Walker got to Atlanta, he did not call his friend’s family right away. Instead, he went to the first place he saw with food, which happened to be a small, rundown place that sold corndogs and coke for a dollar per item. Walker bought himself three corndogs and a coke, and strolled over to a nearby park, where, he sat down on a bench and ate. As Walker sat, dipping his corndogs into a paper plate covered in ketchup, an old woman took the seat directly next to him, and started writing in a paper notepad. He looked over at her, and tried to see what she was writing, but she covered up her pad and his efforts were wasted. Still, Walker kept trying, and eventually the woman got annoyed and mentioned it.
“Sir, I don’t mind if you are curious, but it is terribly, terribly rude to read over another person’s shoulder as they write.” The woman’s voice was rough and beautiful, changed by time, but bettered, like fine wine.
“I’m sorry ma’am, it’s just that I’ve been on the road for a while now, and I reckon I haven’t really read anything in, ****, probably longer than that. See I’m lookin’ to find my girlfriend up north, on account of she took my car and ran away from home and all.”
“Well that is certainly a shame, but I don’t see why that should rid you of your manners.” The woman scolded Walker.
“Yes ma’am, I’m sorry. What I meant to convey was that, I mean, I kind of just forgot I guess. I haven’t had too much time to exercise my manners and all, but I know my mother would have educated me better, so I apologize but I just wanted to read something, because I think that’s something important, you know? I’ll stop though, because I don’t want to annoy you, so sorry.”
The woman seemed amused by Walker, much as a parent finds amusement in the cuteness of another’s children. His childish, simple smile bore through her like a sword, and suddenly, her own smile softened, and she opened up to him.
“Oh, don’t be silly. All you had to do was ask, and not be so unnervingly discreet about it.” She replied, as she handed her pad over to Walker, so that he could read it. “I’m a poet, see, or rather, I like to write poetry, on my own time. It relaxes me, and makes me feel good about myself. Take a look.”
Walker took the pad from the woman’s hands. They were pale and wrinkly, but were held steady as a rock, almost as if the age displayed had not affected them at all. He opened the pad to a random page, and started reading one of the woman’s poems. I asked Walker to recite it for me, but he said he couldn’t remember it. He did, however, say that it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever read, a lyrical, flowing, ode to t
A Short Story 2008
Sharina Saad Jan 2015
I wept as I walked down the aisle
My heart was throbbing in severe pain
A bouquet of roses in my shivering  hands
I felt like a zombie in a wedding dress

My dad, dashing in tuxedo
Smiling proudly as he gave my hand
To this total stranger...
A wealthy entrepreneur  ...
His type of son in law
Very little information that I knew about

Marriage was not something that i planned
Marriage was something that arranged in my culture
My So called Happiness was set before me
Just needed me to say I Do
Love marriage is something impossible
Falling in love?
Yet another taboo

I cried oh I cried
I wanted to see the world
I have so much to do
Places to visit
People to meet
Happiness is what I sought for
On my own  

Yes the diamond ring
i was tempted to wear
Wasn't so sure should
I tie the knot.
Should i travel the universe

I hated what I did
But I was not regretting either
Sorry daddy
What a big disappointment
today...
Once again...
I had to be a runaway bride...
My runaway darling
is like a promise
of the twenty seventh.
fast pace
in treacherous way
stayed for nothing
in sunset
and gone by sunrise,
it is not a surprise to me.

My runaway darling
is telling me some lies
and dreadful sorry,
that's what his claim to fame.

My runaway darling
is like a recall,last December
It's obnoxiously beautiful
and my runaway darling
is searching somewhere,
nowhere
Michaela Ferris Mar 2014
Let's runaway and never look back.
You and me, hand in hand...
We could escape this world of pain
Tabitha Jul 2014
They say "it's for your own good"
"You'll understand when your older"
After 17 years of living you'd think
I would know by now,
It's hard to wrap my head around,
Around a concept not so profound,
A life which my parents want me to live,
Which would mean it would be my life I would have to give,
I respect you,
And stay true,
True to myself and others too,
The values and lessons you've taught,
Which no amount of money or things could be bought,
For it's time to treat me as old as I am,
I am not once that young girl you had planned,
The one in love with feathers and lame tv shows,
The one who always carried her heart in her hand,
The one with dazzling brown crystal shone eyes and wondered around the land,
The one who didn't want anyone to get hurt,
The one now learned from the grime and dirt,
The one who wouldn't stop asking questions,
The one who always said "did I mention.."
The one who's eyes would fill in tears after getting a 'booboo'
but would be all better once you kissed it too,
The one who would be by your side holding your hand
The one who was daddy's little sidekick,
And who was momma's little measuring stick,
The one who didn't grow all too much,
The one who would be scared of movies and your arms she'd clutch,
The one who dreamed to play basketball,
The one who would be supported no matter how many dreams she had,
The ones as absurd as that,
The one who's hand would wrap around one finger,
The one who would laugh at everything you'd say
The one who love to watch the stars and lay,
The one who would love to play,
The one who you'd tuck into bed every night,
The one who would make you turn on a night light,
The one who was daddy's little girl,
And who was mama's pearl,
The girl in those summer dresses and a flower in her hair,
Is standing tall and strong as she shows you she cares,
She's going to make you proud,
For her words may not speak loud,
She's a runaway,
Off to a place unknown,
To explore a world,
And be who she wants to be,
The girl who wants to be free,
Just like how she did when she was young,
Just her and her heart,
Completely alone.
I hope someone can relate. Been a tough write
Kayal Jul 2019
Let's runaway
You and me.
Just you and me.
Just like how we have dreamt,
Just the way we have always wanted.
In one of those long trains,
That takes us to destiny.
Along the other bunch of curious eyes,
Ours being the brightest,
Hand in hand, lovey dovey,
Blending with stardust,
Let's get lost into our dreams.

Come, Lets runaway

From all these planned chaos,
Organised crimes, so called selfless responsibilities.
Let's free ourselves from this cage.
This cage, locked by the society.
We've gotta escape it.
Not like the dewdrops slipping through the leaf,
But like the warriors breaking through the fortification.

Come, Lets runaway,

I don't know where
Let's just run till we find our destination.
Inevitably this will be a long run,
But this will never be tiring
Because we are together.
We will be tormented with storms
Don't be scared, we are together.
We will survive the storm.
When the journey gets harder
Don't be flustered, never step back.
Hold my hand tight, we'll be fine.
Trust me, this is what our every single heartbeat wished for.
Every breath out of our lungs went in search of this quest.
Lets get it and feed our souls.
Lets run away.
Contraducción May 2019
-Look!
You want to runaway?
-Yeah let's do it!


You want to?
-Yeah!


Let's do it then...
-Go!
Let's rock
Have a good day

— The End —