Hostile, NYC, Proud

The deranged cyclist

My bike is my beast. I hit the streets with that trusty steed and blow through intersections like the laws don’t apply to me.

I forgot to take my meds. I’m shaky and I’m loud. I’m not unproud. I see myself making a scene; removed from it as if in a dream.

They all wish I would remain unseen. They think I’m unclean. Obscene.

I don’t prove them wrong. I shout from my cycle, yell thoughts that sound profound in my head, but come out profane. Am I insane? Maybe. Am I to blame? Who’s to say?

But who likes to slough through each day as if in a swamp; drugged and dopey; kept from feeling the few small things that still make me feel human?

Those pills are inhumane. Even if without them I’m insane. I’d rather not drain my brain of the last bits that make me want to remain.

So try to refrain. Just look the other way while I display my pain.

Just look the other way.

Standard