Running

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I’m running.
I can’t stop.
I know I’ve only moved a few feet,
or maybe I’m really sitting in a chair,
laughing at a steak.
But my mind thinks I’m running,
running from my defective life,
running from my problems,
running through a smoking haze from demonic horses,
though the latter could be credited to the Metallica blaring in my stepdad’s living room.
I’m running.
I have to stop.
She worries about me.
I catch my breath.
The distorted images, vibrant colors resembling
a bad acid trip, all come into focus.
My relaxed mind settles back into a storm of stress.
But I fight on.
I stop running from my fear, my agony, my problems.
I hand the smoking paper to the person next to me.
The haze before my eyes finally clears.





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