With heavy panic attacks, moments drag like feet.
Being in public when they strike is endless embarrassment.
Tears streak down your cheeks, a salty acid you burn yourself with.
Strangers laugh, mock your thought process, and stare holes in see through skin.
The uncriticized citizens of your city are not be trusted when they are so ready to judge you.
You will not accept help from those who will remember the look on your face while looking down their nose.
Accept the open scabs of your heroes and the mad gifts we share as epiphany and know your titanium soul can not be broken or bent; keep your spine as straight as your sight.
Go home, like all poets.
WIL GIBSON 