Friday, March 21, 2008


There was crust in my eyes,
Smoke in my lungs,
Filthy sweat on my face,
And an ache in my head that wouldn’t go away.
All byproducts of the drinking game.
I didn’t give a damn.
I hadn’t changed my underwear in days.
Piss splashed all over my ankles,
Right on the open wounds I’d earned
From scratching at some weird jungle rash.
I hadn’t washed my shorts in months,
They were covered with grime and beer and hot sauce.
The hair on my head couldn’t get clean,
It was always curling and nappy and itchy.
Byproducts of the traveling game.
My packs were torn and falling apart,
Full of holes and loose threads.
My back was always feeling pain,
And I’d bruised the bone on the ball on my right foot.
I was at a point in my life,
Where I hated everyone and everything,
but loved it all, simultaneously.
I’d learned to love the pain and misery.
I knew I finally would.
But none of this mattered at all.
Not in the end.
Because the train I was on,
It kept rolling down those wobbly tracks.
The train of life would always just keep rolling,
Right on down the tracks.

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