Bitch

I feel somehow that they have mislabeled you

Perhaps just penned you in the wrong ink...

I'm not sure

It seems when I try to describe you, the idea goes sailing away and never anchors home

Slippery one might say...

As the man crawling beneath a rolled-over vehicle, slathered in blood and puke

Like the words that had beckoned to him "C'mon let's go for a ride..." now thoroughly lost

Nothing more then a few grueling moments in agony before it was just a memory and a phrase that didn't quite seem to fit...

Unreal. What did that word even mean?

If felt insulting.

As though the momentary terror that had consumed your reality was nothing more then a passing storm -- No more then a ghost or a Flying Dutchman...

But could the same not be said for it all?

Is any of this really what we came here for?

The choice alone is too much for me not to waste it and I fear if I leave it for too long that the choice will inevitably make itself...

Perhaps that in turn is the choice

The freedom to be or not...





Written and published by Andrew Frans Robert Kerklaan -- Nameless_Traveler