hill,
makes these legs hurt
up it
up it
trying to reach a top

how could i –
with a childhood –
of wheat and rye
not try my best

maybe the chip on my shoulder
is making me turn out wrong
always justifying,
because i have never had –
the guile, the belief,

where did this anxiety come from
did it walk in –
as they slipped out
what happened to younger days
when it was fine to scream and shout

i was unsecured
from my fixing point
let loose
when i should have come home
and cooked my goose