Give me calluses
For my feet.
And all the cuts and bruises
That come with hours spent
Beneath weeping willow,
Oak and pine.
No shelter for me.
Please, no really I’m good.
I have had my share of lazy boys
And safe spaces,
Tucked in at night
With no monsters beneath my bed.
Instead give me calluses,
For my feet.
And a face weathered in the
Wind of experience.
Cheeks grizzled by years
Of doing what only I am
Capable of doing.
Or at least what only I am willing to do.
I grow too weary beneath
Fluorescent rays.
I am choked by the purity
Of this stale air.
I long to be in the ring
With the world.
Scraping for the right to live.
Millions of years have ended with me.
And here I sit,
Handcuffed in the fear of a skinned knee.
I want to breathe.
Deep, slow, and deep.
I want breathe,
Quick, short, and quick.
Give me the untouched canvas.
Give me the brush.
Give me the forest.
The weeping willow
The oak
The pine.
Give me the unforgiving earth.
Give me the skinned knees.
Give me the air to breathe.
The sun to sing.
The clenched fist and the pounding heart.
And yes, give me calluses
For my feet.