Every. Breath. Is. Poetry.

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There is a truth I've found
It has to do with sound
and rhythm, and rhyme scheme
Has to do with coming clean
Has to do with the way your feeling
These moments that are stealing
your breaths
and the ones that beat on the back of your chest
With that faithful drum
With that soothing hum of
"Still alive, still alive, still alive"
The fact that you've sinned
and the fact that redemption is possible
That the science of how we got here is plausible
But the patterns in the winds are clausible
And the breath in your lungs is responsible
for the life and the death of yourself
It is this, that tells the truth
again and again
till your gasping for air
Wind in your hair
Running freely!
Not because you don't care,
but because you care so very much
Like Starsky and Hutch
Like best friends and such
side by side at lunch
Your steady, strong crutch
that you've leaned on so much
Running like your mouth to those bullies

like your father from his past
like wind through a broken mast
like your free from a disaster at last
Like the cast is off your leg so you'll never look back
Don't ever look back, dead sprint
lungs are empty
breathing heavy
Knees unsteady
but somehow ready
to accept that
Every. Breath. Is. Poetry.





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