The Chase ★★★★

Caffeine and creation.
I string my highs together
like Mardi Gras beads or traffic lights.
An endless series
of distractions and chaotic affectations.
Anything to keep me
from the things buried behind my throat.
Because the moments spent alone
are muddied in confusion,
or perhaps too sharp a clarity.
My feet strike the concrete till they ache,
but there is never enough distance.
The music is never loud enough.
The speedometer never reads high enough.
I push and I grind and I rise and fall,
manic and wavering.
But there is never enough escapism
to satisfy that creature inside my chest,
always unsettled in the stillness.
I can feel its churning.
Somewhere in me I know
I am simply riding the wave
of these thoughts I am fleeing.
The swell is surging at my feet
and I can't keep this up forever.
It has become a matter of
a refusal to acknowledge
while awaiting the point my will gives out,
hoping that by then
that this pressure will be weaker
or else it will unarguably sweep over everything
crush my being and drag me out to sea.

I simply can't run fast enough.