there are no straps left

on the hand-me-down boots you gave us.

so how should we pull ourselves up?

this worn leather, falling to pieces,

has encased many directionless feet,

and it reeks of despair.

the soles are worn thin

from countless desperate steps,

running from your neglect and toward fleeting diversions,

all to escape the tyranny of your expectations.

so don’t talk about responsibility

until you’ve worn these shitty boots for a while.

and forget about just walking a mile;

it’s going to take a lifetime until we reconcile.

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