Throat burns.

Heart yearns,

For an extra breath,

Or time to rest,

Before the mess that is my face,

Sweats profuse, to keep my pace

 

I pound the street,

With feet worn out,

Without the grace I wish I had,

To satisfy my conscience mind,

That wishes all this pain just would,

Transfer to my looks.

But all that people see in me is a huff puffed train,

That wish he could.

 

But try I might,

In steps, and strides,

In pulls, and all the other things beside,

In time, I know

I must be done.

I run and run, it MUST be done.

And when I am, I breathe again, and all the other things I can,

And rest my head, upon my bed.

And go to sleep and dream instead