I don't walk with my head held up anymore.
What is it I'm afraid to see?
The world isn't ugly,
Doesn't have a look of disgust.
I have the energy to look up,
But I never do.
Instead I stare at the ground:
Fleeting glances to follow my path,
Making sure I bother no one on my way.
I don't walk with my head help up.
I feel as though I've nothing to be proud of.
No shining accomplishments, no glorious achievements,
Not even notoriety to my name.
I don't hang my head in shame,
I've done nothing to warrant it.
But there's something that keeps me looking down,
And even though I don't see it,
I know it.
I feel it.
I almost expect it.
I don't walk with my held high.
Truth be told, I never did.
It's easier to hide myself down here.
No furtive glances, no inquisitive looks,
No familiar stares, no passing contempt.
I allow myself to be walked by,
To not be noticed,
Not out of the ordinary,
Not kept from the nothing I have to do.
I can't be hurt, can't be touched, can't be reached.
And that's the way I wish it wasn't.