Airline Number 3 Poem by Alaina B.

The world is a quilt of squares
Concrete lines cut through the land
Rivers of mud and muck
Concrete, plowed fields, and trees
White clouds like pulled and frayed cotton balls
The shapes blur after a while
Then they come back into focus
Greens so grey and blues so brown
Beautiful clouds I can't touch
So soft and free but just out of reach
The cars are everywhere like insects
Until they look like nothing at all
Awful asphalt roads are the stitching of a square world
Like a graphite pencil drew lines through the ground
The world is ripped apart
Organic shapes
Marred by brown rivers and splatters of buildings
A patchwork quilt of brown, green, and fraying cotton

I am almost alone
I cannot hear those around me
They are white noise
It's all a blaring background sound that means nothing at all
So much pressure
There's a tight feeling in my stomach
The smells of salt, mint, and filth fill my senses
Building pressure
The light is so bright, but the noise is worse without it
My ears are ringing, and the wind is rushing
Everything is mindless entertainment and blinding contrast
Tunnel vision
It's getting dark
I'm dizzy