The Red

"Running" doesnt always invovle rapid movement of the feet. Just after I wrote this, I met this boy's mother. I feel strange calling him a little boy- or even a boy.

those too-big shoes
falling off your feet
sucked into the the wet concrete
drowing seems so inevitable
by this tepid poision you are allowed to swallow

your angelic face with it's
perfect carvings, smoothened features
lies to say you are a boy
the shadows of wisdom you ought not to know
and lightless eyes that pretend to shine

who lets you swim through this grass and smoke?
who lets you dance in those red, red pants?
who diseases help and tutors you in marijuana?

little boy so grown up
never big enough to be head-over that stagnant lake

eleven
doesnt fail to make me breathe a little slower
eleven
keeps causing me to pause
try to swallow that slow growing stone
somewhere in my throat
where is the little boy in you?
oversized everything
doesnt even make you small

eleven
reversely echoes
growing louder and shaking in my ears
letters rewrite themselves
strangely golden, humming as they scream
eleven

eleven
just grows bigger and younger
eleven
eleven
little eleven year old boy