NYC

Each car is an object from my past, standing in the middle of a busy street, dodging all is an impossible task. Every car I am hit by, is just a piece of the past, a skeloton coming back, only to drag me back. Firm footing is what will aid in standing my ground. One foot in front of the other, I can't look back. Not now, not ever. I can't do this to some one else. I can help them out of a hole, but my hole only gets deeper. Maybe my heart is going south.... not towards a person as such, but towards Satan. Away from here. Someday all will be well, this I assure you, but for now, I'll just hail another taxi cab; waiting for the closet doors to blow open. . .