They ask me why I choose strange new roads everyday
When I have the comfort of old and known paths.
They ask how I do it
Marching with no fright of twisted terrains.
They call me many names
Brave, stupid, wanderer, lost.
But how do I tell them
How known roads frighten me the most.
Some dropped objects here, a couple bruises there
And the named road will shame me to the known masses who walk by.
And how do I explain my idiosyncrasy
Of feeling trapped and shut on the road taken daily.
No thank you, I'll smile
I'd rather walk alone, in silent meditation, on my unnamed roads.
Where getting lost, I will witness a new direction
And getting a bruise, no human, bear witness to my sin.
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