I don't walk with my head held up anymore.


What is it I'm afraid to see?

The world isn't ugly,

Isn't horrifying,

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.