Raw

It grips me like crude oil from an oil drum
grips the sides of it's encasement,
wishing for an escape between the corrugated steel and rivets
scantily clad in
armor and wrong-doings,
the history of tomorrow written on it's footprint.
It seizes me the way the first note of a symphony
seizes the crowd and causes the
jaws to drop in frustration of their minds that weave just the same
but more cluttered and out of place in
strange platinum traps and
loose lips cross-hatched with the
stitches of existence.
If I could be anything I'd be a bird so I could fly to where you are.
Fuck that.
If I could do anything I'd leave this place behind me because
there's no use in pretending to fly
when in reality, you're knee-deep in quick sand while everybody else can only see you
from the waist up.
The reality of the situation imposes impractical feelings and even less
practical thoughts on the
swaying of palm trees in the distance,
the clatter of dishes on the floor,
the sound of bells at 10 am on a Saturday,
a feeble attempt at a cry to the sky taken on a whim by the breeze that knows us all, taken away, taken away,
taken away once more
to a far place you dream of but never can be until
you knock on heaven's
heaven's
hea
vens.
crude oil symphony written in the veins of a struggling poet in a sea of widespread uncertainty.