The Stamp On My Sixteenth Year

Bulldozer tracks in mud.

Deep in your belly a thud.

Dried cracking dying earth.

Slayed mirth.

It’s the only poem I’ve written that I remember by heart.  Its taken me to the top of the mountains, and the bottom of the jail cells.  It sank in, won’t be stripped away, and burnt a purpose across my soul.

You wonder why I drop my phones, ditch my cars, and fade into the forest.  You ask if I’m thinking straight, doubt that I care, and wish I’d stuck around.

Blame the poem of my sixteenth year, as it wrote into me, what it was, to be free.

While I do not regret what it does, I wrote this in the hope of a new poem, that you can meet in the burn behind my eyes.

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