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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.
