Pushing Weeds.

Someday, you'll be walking
down the street of some
old, beat down neighborhood.
You'll trip, lose your balance,
and land face down, flesh broken.
But only for a minute, of course.

Because you'll find a tiny,
barely visible weed, growing.
Making it's way, like a strand
of lost hope. Of lost dreams.
Of everything you can't recall.
And realize that crack,

That miniscule, broken thing.
Was a reflection of me.