“You’re loitering on the wrong side of the street, can't you feel them staring? Daring you to step out of line. 

A line drawn in tandem with the erased that lingers like

our past – like street smoking billowing from a cracked car window.

Tinted, stopped at a red light on a clear night beneath a street light flickering.” 

Sometimes I feel like a moth attracted to the light

crashing into The Source hoping for a breakthrough, but I usually end up fried in a downfall

wings scolded

hot to the touch brushed up against some pile of trash that will never decompose. 

Microchips and silicon enclosed in plastic armor 

admiring a false martyr cast down from the zenith, 

but I’m still a believer. 

I-I have a good conscience, at least I think I do. 

I’m still bruised by the reality of it all, though I never really fell

off my bike — unless I was trying to show off. 

That's probably a metaphor for something. 

Though, no need to intellectualize something that is truly nothing.

What are you running from? 

What are you scared to lose? 

What are you trying to prove

“There’s a hand hidden behind it all — fiddling with the knobs and buttons that makes something out of nothing.” 

“Why are you loitering on the other side of the street?” 

I got tired of pretending I belonged and needed to rest my feet.