Barefoot

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.