I sweep the floor I never meant to keep, Dust from corners I once called home. Every step I measure twice, Every breath I take alone. There are nails in my pockets, And a map I have not read, I know where I've been, I know where I'm not yet. If I stay still, I start to rot, If I rush, I tear the seams, So I carve the middle ground, With bloodied hands and careful means. I. AM. NOT. WHAT I WAS BUILT ON I. AM. NOT. THE GROUND I MADE I WILL LAY THE STONES MYSELF I WILL WALK AHEAD I cut the cord with practiced grace, No ceremony, no goodbye. Some habits beg like starving dogs, Some ghosts still call me by my name. But I have learned to keep my eyes up, When the floor begins to sway, I will not worship the collapse, Just because it feels familiar. Progress is a quiet violence, Patience dressed in teeth, You do not heal by standing still, You heal by leaving pieces underneath. I. AM. NOT. WHAT I WAS BUILT ON I. AM. NOT. THE GROUND I MADE I WILL LAY THE STONES MYSELF I WILL WALK AHEAD There is a rhythm to rebuilding, A pulse beneath the pain, Every step costs something, But it costs more to stay the same. One step. Another. Do not look back. Do not look back. I. AM. NOT. WHAT I WAS BUILT ON I. AM. NOT. THE GROUND I MADE I WILL LAY THE STONES MYSELF I WILL WALK AHEAD When the dust finally settles, They will ask how I survived, I will say I kept moving, Even when the road was carved with knives.
