Unflattering Mile in Another’s Shoes


The fabric of family was often,
as many wore
the childhood,
I never knew,
trying on hand-me-down,
with seasonal,
starred wishes,
that I quickly, outgrew.
I warned,
go on,
playing make believe,
in shoes,
that never taught me,
from what, too run.
Although they’d never flatter,
with they’re distances​,
away from fun.
So worn,
were the soles,
barely on,
from thousands of unnecessary miles,
surely a waste,
a bitter residue,
of haste,
by all the
forced smiles.
They read loudly,
my carved dreams,
thoughts and nightmares,
as they became etched,
in a weeping,
As nearby shoes drying,
beside it,
were just my size,
the perfect fit.
Carrying my stories,
some shouted,
others hidden,
and buried,
inside my pillow.
Many untamed,
claimed fame,
saying they could walk in my shoes, better than me,
of the twist and turns, ,
dismissive cold shoulders and heart
created, freely.
All planted without concern,
that awaited,
my eyes too witness,
and burn.
A pattern,
in which I became,
used too,
slipping on,
tripping over, and stained hues of red brimmed,
that became an evident path,
too my soul’s shattered windows,
from stones cast,
that fell off loosened lips,
that smugly laughed,
As I walked in shoes,
of eggshell tips.
Worn out,
but not from my own story’s,
For it was mine,
and mine
and noone else,
could talk,
or walk,
my journey’s trail,
nor set the tone.
As no one could walk in my shoes or afford it,
to look toward my mountains​ top, and sit.
For each occurrence captured,
was only for me,
my shaping,
a mold intended, of my identity’s lift,
my perfect fit.


By Tamara Dorsey-Moore
Thinker on the loose
Copyright © 2017