Hit Me with Your Heels.

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.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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