Breakthrough

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Shattered the twisted, bent and torn image of me.  

Hard ass that takes no shit. 

Or is that the me deep down.  

Am I instead the one sad, wearing a smile with the weight of the world 

strapped in a bag over my shoulder.

That sounds more familiar. 

The kink in my neck, and my sore feet should have been the clue.

I can't seem to set that bag down and let it go.  

The strap must be sticky.  

Or maybe I am addicted to the sore feet...oh and that kink. 

Maybe it is because I am running too fast. 

 I create my own gravity.

The bag with all the weight can't escape.  

If I don't run, they will catch me.

I will be found out.  

Loser, failure, disappointment are tattooed on my soul

The bag is my penitence.