The Walk

    Habitually I continue my trek in and around my environment. This movement is basic and we call it muscle memory. But the memories reside in my mind. I never forget the time I have wasted waiting for my left leg to pass my right leg. I can never forget all the experiences I could have had if my time was not spent crossing my limbs awkwardly until I passed the room. And that time is in which I live. A gross purgatory. The hallway is a moment of time that each of us gives to the incessant clacking of feet. I loathe writers. I hate the writers and imaginative radicals that conceived that there should be a better way! Teasing me with a false hope that I could potentially suddenly appear anywhere I pleased without much thought…..I DESPISE galloping like a beast to my destination when SCIENCE PROMISED ME, I was PROMISED that I would no longer need to travel more than a meter in my life time. I hate the feeling of my knees grinding on themselves. So I grind my teeth. I hate the pulsating muscles on my calves so I squeeze my fists. I hate the wind between my feet so I RUN AND RUN AWAY FROM MY STEPS BUT MY STEPS ARE ALWAYS BEHIND ME AND TIME IS ALWAYS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND! Now I stand still. Stillness is beauty and without time. But now I wait. I hate the sound of breathing. So I….(*holds breath*)….will walk again so I may breathe. But I resent the breathes I take to which my legs move rhythmically. My steps take time that could otherwise be used to hold my breathe and end this fate. I now live tottering on the zenith of life and the brink of death. When my legs finally stop may my breath cease.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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