Hard to get up sometimes, pick myself up from a fall
when every day’s battle is a sword fight with gravity.
“Don’t ever trip,” she told me, “because you’re done.”
That unicycle riding the edge of a fence, well, it’s hard.
Teetering masquerade as shakey equilibrium traces lies.
And circles make hopeful promises but terrible homes.
One word awry, one awful image, and all turns lopsided,
my brains screaming out my ears while my gut collapses,
and I simply can not recover steps, a broken frail rhythm.
“Who are you to punch me in the waking dreams I made
to stay the course, mime the normal, and be-fool myself?”
What a mindless, insensitive sot to remind me who I am!