Assuming Society’s Ideals

Strands of hair drift to my feet

Like leaves in autumn.

Then, I grab a comb

Turn my back on the mirror,

And look through a magazine. 

 

I rip off the tattered shirt

With the droplets of paint.

The one that holds Mom’s last breath.

For a shirt more professional.

One more acceptable.

 

My beaten shoes,

Drenched in an ugly past.

Find their way to the trash

Where all their running led them.

I step into new ones.

A pair with clean slates.

 

I step towards the door

On judgment day

In my Sunday’s best.

Plagued echoes follow each new step

“Get ready to eat death and spit fire”

Well I hope this is change enough.

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