If there’s a place for one’s sorrow to crawl, then let it crawl.
For one’s pain, embarrassment — for one’s inability to tear down one’s past view of the future.
To stare at it and see it as foreign, a canvas once put up that bleeds into the wall, forever imprinted.
To be sorry, not for something, but because of it,
But not having the wits or the energy to forcibly remove it.
For what do I deserve this kind of introduction to the world?
For life, for injustice — for reality —
This is the cold, hard ground I hit,
I roll, I pause, I reflect.
This is the ground I tread on.
This is what is forever before me, waiting to crumble beneath my toes.
It’s only quicksand if I let it be.
If I can’t be above it all, then, at least,
On this ground,
I choose to be on top.

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