The Beast

Deep inside me 
there is a beast that runs.

It peaks through the back of my head.
He curls up in a ball with one eye open,
waiting.

He slithers down my throat
and bats at my heart,
pushing the instinctual need to summon
all my energies into my lungs,
and legs.

I feel him calling me up out of my chair, with 
an electric charge in my chest making me want to feel the wind
in my hair and the ground beneath my feet.

I feel the roar of the beast
when I slip on my running shoes,
calling me to the forest,
demanding I blast through every mile marker
like a tiger chasing antelope.

The beast feels like my heart pounding,
clawing his way out with every exhale.

He breaks from my body and runs
next to me, pushing me 
forward.

The beast pushes back
dust, billowing behind us.

We pounce on the stop watch,
halting its tick tock, faster
every time we scream past the finish line.

The beast then climbs back inside me 
through my stuck open mouth,
sneaking back inside my heart while I gasp
for air. 

Now he sleeps,
waiting for me to put
my running shoes back on. 

Published by Grant McLaughlin

Poet and Journalist. email me at grantmac1231999@outlook.com

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