by Dan Bloom May 21, 2010
category :
Life, society /
meaning of life
I habitually avoid walking on cracks in the concrete. I'm unconscious of my feet; my mind is on my tired arm holding a briefcase. I pass hundreds of people with the same problems and ambitions. I follow the path into the garden. The flowers have blossomed; the colors are vibrant. Across the street are buildings make of brick, stone, and metal. They are covered in dirt. There is a broken, rusty bike that hasn't moved for weeks outside the apartment building. I notice the door is already open. I begin to climb three flights of warped wooden stairs. I remember to take the chicken out of the freezer while pulling out my wallet to get my keys. I think about my tired legs as I reach the top floor. I hear bad music playing loudly from my neighbors rooms. I read doors: 18,19,20,21. |
by Lori
Great poem :) this is something that could be turned into a song. Have you ever thought of that? |
by The Prince
The problem with this piece is that it is badly formatted and ultimately boring. |