Hit the pavement
and the ground running—
Shoot the shit and for you,
Go hard or go home,
break the ice,
press your luck, and roll the dice.
Snap out of it and sink your teeth in,
break the glass ceiling and
come to win.
But why must we strive violently forwards? Kicking and slapping and thieving our joy— on comparisons. I don’t want to win.
I want to lay on the pavement and feel its sandpaper beads reach out for my pores. I want it to cool my burning forehead
and force me—
no, unlock me
to know its fluidity to alert my body that it lies on the ground not flying through the air to hit the ground running.
Because we’re not racing.
We sit on the earth and then we go. Body to earth to fluid to soul. Living, breathing, asking, giving, feeling loving, singing, humanity. We weren’t made with—
Hit, shoot, hard, break, gunning, press, roll, snap, sink, break, punch, win…
They’re all just things we learn when we begin.
This is the first is a series titled "Fake Psych" by Flannery Maney
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