A breath is a reflex,
yet so forth is a tear
dripping from the
infamous ducts of a youthful eye.
Paranoia clouds an infantile mind,
such as the simplistic thoughts
of a glossy eyed Barbie doll
upon the clearance rack.
Attention comes and goes
such as patrons of a gas station
and your conscience is pinned up
with dollar store push pins.
Every year, your picture day
becomes more monotonous than the last.
Once you stop losing teeth,
the changes in the portraits become
merely changes in character,
yet those can’t be seen with the naked eye.
Home doesn’t mean the house you grow up in anymore
rather it becomes a metaphor for some
sick, twisted sense of reality
where feeling your heart beat faster than a racehorse
is more comforting than your childhood teddy bear.
Rest assured, the breath is still there.
Rest assured, the breath is still a reflex.
But each day you realize it’s more prevalent than the last
because the rocks in your shoes
don’t feel so heavy anymore
compared to the weight
of your thoughts.