Lie Down and Run

A poem about trying to bring night strength into undermining day

A continuation of the Inhale, Exhale poetry series :

I have things I want to do shoved up my sleeves,
wadded into pockets and stuck in zippers.

I shuffle them from one late night
to the next
like a ponytail on the wrist,
useful if used,
otherwise ornamental.

I taste this truth when I lick my lips
and it streams off me in the shower.
My pores are thick with purpose.
My skin scoured raw and ready.

But wait, my eyelids say.
Dream it instead.
Lie down and run.
Make mental moves
but stay upon the pillow.
Real life must wait for
what is real
right now.

The need will have me, though.

The words show the times
we’ve said it in the dark,
scrawled in mostly empty journals,
in fits and fits of ink.

I’ll gather the shreds of paper and skin
from the pile of laundry on the floor,
where they wait –– just wait ––
to be worn as a patchwork hoodie,
head to shoulder to hip – embroidery across the chest,
across the heart,
the stitching: “I am a storyteller”.