There is something to be said
about dragging dead weight
through a claustrophobic hall
way -every day- with
nothing but the bags on your back
in your hand on your shoulder and under
your eyes to tell your teachers
Hi. I’m Here.
without moving your lips. it
is sort of like breaking a promise - if you
lift your hand above your nose then you’ve
and it wouldn’t be noticeable
-you’ve thought this through-
if you glance to the left every now and then
to peak at a person who’s
just like you -
Eight years of bags four years of bags six years of
Bags and bags and bags I
cannot stop looking at garbage burning
holes into my people.
but that’s who we are - garbage people.
sifting through the messes piling higher higher
piling bone deep in our chest there’s
so much more that we can do but how can we
see when our fingers have broken digging through the
muck and left us powerless to choose between
trash - recycle - trash - recycle -
we want to find the shattered glass, the fish bones
poking at our ribs, and when we
do we try to shove it over to the trash - but
our palms are sweaty from the pain, so they
slip - often - and fall into a repeat
of shattered eyes and hollow bones supposedly holding
us together. Our structure is
Unstable at best, collapsing more often, but
always we are seen in a specific window.
you only see the train - not the cliff
you only see the wheels - not the broken track
and not everyone keeps on chugging along
because life isn’t fair and people aren’t happy,
but sometimes there is something, some
thing that pile drives into your overburdened
soul and knocks the trash back to hell and
leaves you bareboned, open, weightless.
the possibility is there
maybe it’s you. maybe it’s something else. maybe it’s not.
but maybe is enough.