A Poem
It takes balls,
hell, it takes every inch,
to keep spinning.
To talk of flowers,
or the death,
of the days before.
To spew yourself,
on your self,
until it eventually,
is written or forgotten.
The thoughts,
thousands rocketing,
bouncing,
without a second,
to stop,
kneel,
and take in air.
Sometimes,
there’s never a page,
or a stone,
just to scribble something.
Never enough time,
yesterday is always,
so far away.
Catching up on sleep,
deadlines,
places to be,
places to see.
Forward momentum,
the earth,
is either suggesting,
to slow down,
or get ahead.
But really,
its Axis knows best.
But,
we keep spinning.
Fighting entropy,
with chins,
always,
to the earth.
Hunched over,
never ahead nor behind,
just spinning,
with or without it.
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