I’ve spent my life on a tightrope,
no safety net, no audience,
just a dizzying abyss waiting below.
The extremes tug at my ankles like rabid dogs—
one side screaming “Perfection!”
while the other whispers,
“Why bother?”
It’s not balance I seek, not really.
Balance is for the zen masters,
the kale-eating crowd with too much free time.
No, I’m just trying not to fall,
to not let gravity win.
One misstep,
and I’m back to licking the dirt.
I sway between hunger and apathy,
between the bottle and the book,
between the lover who stays
and the one who only pretends to.
The rope wobbles like my convictions,
weak promises I make
at 2 a.m. and break by dawn.
Some mornings, the rope feels too tight,
cutting into my feet and bleeding regret.
Other times, it’s slack,
a lazy threat, daring me to jump.
But I keep walking,
not because I’m brave,
but because standing still
feels worse than the fall.
And maybe that’s the trick.
It’s not about balance;
it’s about motion,
the forward stumble,
the glorious, awkward shuffle
that keeps me alive.
Subconscious Voice: (what a fucking bore)
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