Sunday, August 29, 2010

Mystory

I like a little bit of country
I sleep with small towns under starry skies on my mind
My hands like to find comfort and rest in the forgotten dirt of mountain trails
Seeing tumbleweed makes me feel as excited as a kid on Christmas morning
I grew up with rattlesnakes in my backyand and a wood joist, steel roofed barn bustling with cows, horses, and sheep dog down the street, four houses away
I was born in the desert with cactus and wandering scorpions
My father was born in a faraway place known for its jungles, tigers, and elephants
But somewhere in our photo album there's a picture I'll always remember of him wearing a plaid shirt, jeans, and a straw cowboy hat
My mom grew up across the street from the Hundred Acre Woods with forts, rope swings, and a lake she would go ice skating on in the winter
A long curly blonde haired woman who dared to hitchhike through Europe in her early twenties for a year where she made money by selling encyclopedias door to door for hours a day to pay for hostels and food
For now I call the city my home
Searchin' my soul
Enjoying the many lights and always looking for some dirt to run through my hands

1 comment:


About Woe

My photo
Words are our outright melody and no one else is going to play the songs you feel but yourself. Let me be more esoteric....just kidding. You may ask when reading my poetry, why do I use metaphors so often? After thinking that through, I honestly don't know why. My guess would be that language, though freeing, can also be restrictive. Especially in terms of expressing ourselves in attempt to understand ourselves. I, personally, get stuck in gears sometimes and I like to expand and break through traditional understanding of the concept at hand. I like to read what I'm feeling in different forms, and see if the language can lossen up more.