It’s the pull and the push;
The sprinted finish rush.
The days are moving, the days with halts;
The bolt and jolt as nerves send volts.
The twists and turns as drama unfolds;
The seconds of voices delivering their scolds.
The wrestle of conscience whilst conscious;
The admitting of behaviours found stupendous.
The alterations of mindsets and the picking at nits;
The nagging, scriking, and getting on someone’s tits.
The feelings that flow like rivers so strong;
The knowing that we’ll get on fine, get along.
The possibility of possibilities that bubble up and fizz;
The rush, the speed of it, and that wanting to whiz;
The secondhand ticking as the stomach metabolises.
Nerves that swerve and give little of what is deserved;
Results dished out and served.
Only then will we know, which way it shall flow;
But, why oh why, does it feel so slow?
AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC - ACTON28.BLOG 