A Poem About Running Away

There was something in the wind

this morning.

A haunting breeze, smelled of thunder.

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There, up over the mountain, a promise

of a better day —

or a lie, I wonder.

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This world makes you make

money at any cost,

leaves the streets all red and bloody.

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I wanna sit beneath the trees

but we burn them to make paper.

We print it almost just as green,

God damn, it makes me bitter.

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I’m getting in my car. I’m done.

It's burning in my blood.

I’ll hide it in the rivers.

I’ll sleep in the mud.

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