Bulldozer tracks in mud.
Deep in your belly a thud.
Dried cracking dying earth.
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.