Under An Overpass

My mental pen is at it again.

This time though, it's not healthy where it lands.

I'm under an overpass, being run over by cars.

It's scary, this closeness to death.

If the concrete above were to give, all that would be left of me would be necrotic and burried.

As I hear the cars above, I stop and think about how much worse it is to never blink.

To keep it all inside and live a selfish life, that's how we're told to survive.

I'm sick of these cars that drive overhead, but moreso, I'm scared sick of death.

Little rocks and sediments fall through the cracks, coming from someone's tire; quickly falling is every 

little speck.

The people above will continue on, not knowing what they've left.

But I do, it affects me.

I'm covered in an ashy layer, blanketed by it. 

I begin to think that all this dust is in a way like people themselves, all healthy and moving along,

until suddenly they fall.

These bits and pieces of the above trickle down into the low.

These parts of wholes are somewhat like what they've left.

They change and morph me, distort every feature.

They make me into something,  into something I was never meant to be. 

I'm scared of the cars overhead, but even moreso I dread the thought of moving,

Not sure how I got here, only thing is certain.

I hate where I am, I want out of this hole.

One last car rumbles atop, a sealant of my fate.

It deposits one more rock, and that's all that it takes. My lungs begin to burn, they demand to be 

filled.

My limbs regain feeling after being numb for so long.

I stand up on weakened muscles, but I'm standing on my own.

Violently I shake and tremor, until every last speck is gone.

The cars overhead have ceased moving, they've all stopped, gaping at my form.

A phoenix I am as I rise, beautiful and new.

Anywhere away from these ashes is where I'm headed to.

The cars resume driving, everything looks the same.

They'll continue on their neverending highway.

As for me, I no longer care. 

I'm done with ashes and influences, I am my own person, who fights to an avail.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741