Tripping In The Ruts

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I was born in this world who I am meant to be.
A wild flower in the wall, and flat skipping stone and the
Broke glass pieces on the tarmac miles above desert dirt.
My skin is translucent, my skin unbreakable yet bendable.
You touch it and it turns to the shape you want it to be.
What it needs to be, you mumble.
I wear the suit and I vomit the words and I drive that car you tell
Me about from the news and I watch the television with a blank mind,
Dead and solid and sick and unmovable.
I do these things because, . . . well because . . .

I was born in this world who I am meant to be.
I am as stubborn as the bolder and as bold as the sun
And as feeble as the wind and as lovely as the wild flower.
Leave me here.
Let me find the way without a hand to hold.
Let me close my eyes and fall, no matter the height.

Let me.

You think you understand me but behind these suburban walls and calls I am nothing.
I crawl in the shadows you display for me, unwillingly.
I fall in the ruts you carve in the floors, the streets with your routine day and routine life.
I kiss the world I love goodbye with the night and go back to the dream state only when
Allowed.

But I was born in this world who I am meant to be.
My name is my name and my body is my body
And my faults are my faults and my thoughts are my thoughts and my life is
my life.
You tell me to stay in the yard because the world behind it is an unknown place.
I jump the fence and run into the unknown, willingly.
I kissed your cheek before I leaped and you let me go.





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