I was caught between a rock and a hard place. The ancient cliché was literal. I was in the dust storm and the moon seemed tiny. 18 was the number and it seemed it would stay that way. 22 was the catch; I was ready for release. “No good solution,” jogged through my mind. In an effort to escape an older but not much wiser sibling, my fate had led me to this red planet. Big brother was still on my back. He hunkered over my shoulder, I bunkered under the boulder, I heaved, and he breathed, and all the while could not escape. I came to find where ideas used to be fresh. Pain was brief on my red planet, and shock was always new. Sweat collected in the palm of my brain and I focused on my dream. I focused on my own farm with my own rabbits, and the eve of tomorrow was the placebo for my sorrow.
This poem is about:
Poetry Terms Demonstrated:
Need to talk?
If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741