Nothing to Prove

This post has been modified to appease all the self-proclaimed poetry critics out there. I never claimed to follow rhyme, rhythm, meter, or any of that other jazz. Let’s just call it “stream of consciousness” instead so nobody gets their britches in a bunch. You know who you are šŸ˜‰
———————–

I’m tired. Make that weary. Posturing used to have its benefits, but they weren’t real, were they?

The forward facing masses can’t handle it when someone looks around. It messes up their Chi or something…

Its easier to face forward with them, but then I miss the view and all I see is the head in front of me, bobbing along like a fishing lure without a hook.

Even facing forward I don’t quite blend. I never have. My hair is always messy, which seems to tick them off.

I try to comb it down so I match, but these stupid cow-licks fight me, so it never works for long and always draws a stare or two.

Its hard to walk the other way, but at least my footprints are fresh, and I can look them in the face as they stare, burning me with eyes that hate the anomaly.

My footprints are still fresh, but not alone. I guess that means there’s nothing to prove.

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