Inspiration: This poetry exercise I did at around table I partake in.
Word: Motorcycle
When I was three,
I rode a motorcycle
and although I was burnt,
I rode that sick ride
till' the death of it.
The death was to be, unspoken,
as was the ride.
But I, like her,
found the bite of it tantalizing.
I was quick
head high, suffering
from the heat of the engine,
the roar beneath my feet..
I was sick, cool with it
the knowledge of such forbidden knowings
about forbidden doings-
gave me a satisfying,
unclean Joy-
made me latch onto the shallowed deepness
of my insecurities.
You're strong, The Wind said to me, as I coasted down the drive-
Live Long.
Begin Ahead.
Become an innocent in your new life.
Live
The Drive
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