My socks are wet.
It's something I hate.
Stumbling through a cold 12:38 a.m.
mumbling lyrics at flickering streetlights.
I'll blame it on the midnight snow-
maybe on the inept ability for me to be anything but
humble.
But I wont place guilt on the Krylon hearts
that lace these walls I've built over the years.
I'm good,
to a fault.
It's not a flaw that too many would cry over,
but still more than you'd think.
It's pointless to point fingers though,
I enjoy shooting the breeze
with no one around to listen.
The wind holds no grudges,
and that's more than I can say about most people.
I keep walking, trying not to trip up.
This town was founded by walkers,
but built by forgotten names.
The streets are serene once in a while,
no one notices though,
they're too busy trying to outrun em'.
The strangers probably take a second to snicker,
or fear, maybe even empathize.
As they whiz by, I can't help but sing louder-
these headphones are my religion.
And the spray can in my pocket-that's my cross.
The streets don't brag, not even once.
That's what I like about them.
Seven songs and twenty four fast forwards later,
and I've arrived home.
As I play guess which pocket my keys are in,
I notice that the streets followed me home.
And, my socks are still wet,
I really hate that.
