Carrying.
People are wearing backpacks,
Heavy,
Overflowing,
Tight,
Backpacks.
The straps mark their skin,
Pressing hard where they've once been.
The straps indent their flesh,
Remining them of the mess.
Wearing something on the sleeve,
Leaves more than what’s to believe.
Imagine,
If they thought their straps were skin,
As if the bag and self were kin.
As if the load they dragged behind,
Was stitched forever to their mind.
It's just something on the back,
Held together by a strap.
It can be dropped at any turn,
Left behind with no return.
At the corner, down the state,
Set aside and shed the weight.
You can choose a different case,
Leave the old one in its place.
Baggage.
What's inside these backpacks now?
What are they still carrying somehow?
Maybe books of woods and streams,
Glitter-covered childhood dreams.
Old stickers fading at the seam,
Fragments of a younger scene.
Or stories from their youth untold,
Caught in hair instead of gold.
Maybe that's why it's tied up tight,
Wrapped in plastic, clear and bright.
People,
Are walking.
But I see it,
Weighing them down,
In every step, its pull is found.
Every movement, every stride,
Something heavy rides inside.
Like their backpack has grown arms,
And is squeezing the life out of their charm.
The arms had grown so long,
Their hands,
Block out the sun.
Walking,
Talking,
Numbed out,
Zombies.
I know the bag is zipped,
But its contents still lose it.
To the floor,
To the grass,
To every place where there’s tangible mass.
Is that freedom?
Who told you it was a prerequisite,
To go through life with this estimate,
That you know what you can do?
How can you see,
When your eyes are covered by—
what you’ve been through?