The Road

My desire of the road, at times, takes the best of me. I also haven't actually sat down and attempted to write a poem in quite the while, and I found myself emotionally and physically exhausted.

Let me live. Let me see. 

This pretend world, made of cut cardboard boxes

Isn't for me. 

It's not escapism I seek.

But the experience.

The yearning call of the free. 

Foolish in my youth I may be,

Reckless it may seem. 
But the soul, the peak, the essence of my being

It Cries. Shouts. Hollers. 

"The pitch black straight of the road,

Feels like the only life for me."

Author's Note

I'm trying to get back into the whole 'vibe' of writing poetry again, so please, be a little kind to this shameful example of so-called "poetry". :P