I want to be barefoot.
I want to leave my shoes behind.
I want to feel the gravel,
touch the squish in the tar,
feel the temperature amplified on concrete
left alone: Trampled, Washed, Dirtied,
And beat down upon.
I want that connection between who I am
and where I’m going,
to feel the sharpness that radiate upwards
telling me here I am,
Keep going.
I want to see the blood
and Burst the blisters.
I want to have sand under my nails.
I want to pick up the parts of where I’m going
and carry them with me.
I want the pads of my feet to be ridden
with the steps of my past.
I don’t want to be able to slip that off,
Purchase a new sole for $17.99
There’s a reason it’s called that, you know.
What part of you shows best where you’ve been,
— What part of you shows the scars that have healed, —
What part of you tells you so explicitly
that you must keep walking on?
I want to be exposed.
I want to let my spirit hang out.
I want to run,
leap,
soar through the street and
leave nothing but
the stench of my jubilee
behind.
I want my footprints in the sand
— For I was there, not a Nike mark —
I want to compress against the tree bark as I climb
And sink into the mud as I jump.
The breeze will be my AirJordans;
The dirt will be my custom sole.
The grass will be my laces,
And for once,
I’ll beat them all.