Looking down at my feet,
I see it's nearly impossible
To not step on a crack in the sidewalk.
Like seriously, where could I place a single toe,
If at the moment I'm stepping on five cracks or more.
Now that I've gone and done it,
Well, how do I get out?
Trapped on all sides by lines and squares,
Their bad luck creeping up my legs.
I begin to swat at it like it were a flying swarm.
Looking around furiously
For some assistance, but there's no one
About. Only a man in a robe,
Passing me by. Floating on air.
Speechless! Moving nothing. Don't dare.
And I look down
At myself. At the filth.
At the grit and grime,
From wallowing in pity's mud.
Never learning to poke my nose up above the slime.
Needing a helping hand.
Need to help myself first.
Need to let my wounds heal,
Before I can drown my thirst.
Standing up, I feel uneasy.
The muck is pulling me down,
Further away from where I want to be.
More distant to my own reality.
But I must fight for balance of my own.
Looking at my feet,
I imagine that I too can float.
But that will never be,
Because my mind won't let me.
Deadweight memories. Like the stains on my coat.
And this is how the day begins.
Standing on lines, that are there by design,
Worrying about a superstitious line.
Trying to make sense of enough madness.
Trying to not step on a crack.