Photo by Simon Zhu on Unsplash

October 26, 2019

Ran that…

Wrote this.

His shades gleam.

Behind them, likely staring.

Grinning teeth to bore the moment.

Grateful the rocks beneath don’t fall as his feet go,

One after another, without thinking, his body knows the tempo.

The air from here won’t leave us—just trust it, bro.

The next step’s like a free-throw.

They’ll stare, so smile.

Your worries?

You’re weak.

Wouldn’t last…

Not even in a yoga class.

Tired from what in the fuckin’ world?

You shouldn’t even be here—go back to Word.

Bum, you aren’t even worth the car you swerve.

…but then he spoke about a plan that influenced him daily.

Writing to people he’d thank in the future so bravely.

All doubt but internal encouragement set him free.

Leaving forms but understanding made-men are busy.

When his city came in light, to him, he looked no one in the eye.

From an owned land up high—guided by watchers who spy.

An angel beneath him, an origin to relieve him.

He flew away so brave, showing up was the goal overcame.

There be no savior, million dollar check, nor luck.

What’s there becomes the light.

Into a future to own.

Just walk there.

And sit.

So be it.

Your throne.

Issa’ lit.

-Budd