Somewhere Else I'd like to be somewhere else. In a big city, perhaps. Made up of grids Cracks between the buildings there Filled with milling, busking crowds Saturated with noise So loud That I'm deaf to my own thoughts. Maybe somewhere quieter With downy grass That cushions my feet And tickles my toes Leaving my mind a blank slate So that I can take in the countryside, No longer haunted by myself, But aware. And precise. I want to be able to count The blood cells in my chest, hands, feet. And number the droplets That form on the nape of my neck. I'd like to be somewhere else. It'd be nice to feel like something more Than a vessel that houses Guts and gore and rotting thoughts. Somewhere that's not the heat of my room In June; but my just-cracked window Lets in a whistle of air, It's comforting. It reminds me of the sigh Of someone I haven't met yet. I wonder if they'd like to be somewhere else. I wonder what they dream If they dream When they dream. Do they do it with their back Pressed to a paved black top at 2 am Trying to decipher the stars from fireflies? Are they a ball in their bed In a molehill of their sheets Imagining their own bare feet On dew-speckled grass On a moss-slicked log As we creep through the woods And head to better tomorrows With moonlit canyons of mud In the spaces of our toes? I like to think that we'll both be somewhere else. Someday, just not today; Just not tomorrow. You can't force a verse That doesn't want to leap, I know. For now, I guess, We'll keep up with wistful memories Marked by pins in our maps on the wall. Maybe one day we'll stop walking on pebbles.
Somewhere Else

I'd like to be somewhere else.
In a big city, perhaps.
Made up of grids
Cracks between the buildings there
Filled with milling, busking crowds
Saturated with noise
So loud
That I'm deaf to my own thoughts.

Maybe somewhere quieter
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makeitbeautiful
makeitbeautifulsometimes i write poems i hope u like it
Autoplay OFF  •  a year ago
I'd like to be somewhere else.
In a big city, perhaps.
Made up of grids
Cracks between the buildings there
Filled with milling, busking crowds
Saturated with noise
So loud
That I'm deaf to my own thoughts.

Somewhere Else I'd like to be somewhere else. In a big city, perhaps. Made up of grids Cracks between the buildings there Filled with milling, busking crowds Saturated with noise So loud That I'm deaf to my own thoughts. Maybe somewhere quieter With downy grass That cushions my feet And tickles my toes Leaving my mind a blank slate So that I can take in the countryside, No longer haunted by myself, But aware. And precise. I want to be able to count The blood cells in my chest, hands, feet. And number the droplets That form on the nape of my neck. I'd like to be somewhere else. It'd be nice to feel like something more Than a vessel that houses Guts and gore and rotting thoughts. Somewhere that's not the heat of my room In June; but my just-cracked window Lets in a whistle of air, It's comforting. It reminds me of the sigh Of someone I haven't met yet. I wonder if they'd like to be somewhere else. I wonder what they dream If they dream When they dream. Do they do it with their back Pressed to a paved black top at 2 am Trying to decipher the stars from fireflies? Are they a ball in their bed In a molehill of their sheets Imagining their own bare feet On dew-speckled grass On a moss-slicked log As we creep through the woods And head to better tomorrows With moonlit canyons of mud In the spaces of our toes? I like to think that we'll both be somewhere else. Someday, just not today; Just not tomorrow. You can't force a verse That doesn't want to leap, I know. For now, I guess, We'll keep up with wistful memories Marked by pins in our maps on the wall. Maybe one day we'll stop walking on pebbles.

Maybe somewhere quieter With downy grass That cushions my feet And tickles my toes Leaving my mind a blank slate So that I can take in the countryside, No longer haunted by myself, But aware. And precise. I want to be able to count The blood cells in my chest, hands, feet. And number the droplets That form on the nape of my neck.

I'd like to be somewhere else. It'd be nice to feel like something more Than a vessel that houses Guts and gore and rotting thoughts. Somewhere that's not the heat of my room In June; but my just-cracked window Lets in a whistle of air, It's comforting. It reminds me of the sigh Of someone I haven't met yet.

I wonder if they'd like to be somewhere else. I wonder what they dream If they dream When they dream. Do they do it with their back Pressed to a paved black top at 2 am Trying to decipher the stars from fireflies?

Are they a ball in their bed In a molehill of their sheets Imagining their own bare feet On dew-speckled grass On a moss-slicked log As we creep through the woods And head to better tomorrows With moonlit canyons of mud In the spaces of our toes?

I like to think that we'll both be somewhere else. Someday, just not today; Just not tomorrow. You can't force a verse That doesn't want to leap, I know. For now, I guess, We'll keep up with wistful memories Marked by pins in our maps on the wall. Maybe one day we'll stop walking on pebbles.

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