Food Journal

April 28, 2007

another really old (really bad) poem

Filed under: bad poetry — Heather @ 7:17 am

I’m sliding, reaching
out, clawing, teeth
clenched, nails
broken, fingers
bleeding and sore
but grabbing hold
of every rock
or scraggly weed.

A sudden stop
and the dust
settles.  Strained
muscles, ragged
breathing, and
a racing heart
are sound
assurance that
life is enduring.

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