My timing is almost as perfect
as the broken glass
that lines my cracked feet
tired from walking
running, leaving
It'll be worth it
But my timing is almost
as good as that lie
that spoils my tongue
tired from saying,
"It's a big change. I'll
be                        fine."

Sometimes we pretend to be dead
So that we can remain alive.

Old man eyes hide
behind rims covered
in Native design
Lens' of a dark
bark brown keep the
prying looks out
Honest irises are a virtue,
I was told.
Mine scream
"This head is muddled and old!"
So cover them up
Don't let the hungry
stares get past the
glass, sipping from that
red plastic cup
Honest eyes are a virtue
I think that's only true
for you

I am forgotten,
As my footprints
melt
in the snow.