I growl, and toss, and grind my teeth.
Smooth my hair, comb my clothes,
And walk.
I can't see the same way the others do,
Walking about me, minds consumed idea upon idea,
The release of these pressures, like tectonic plates,
Volcanic eruptions into the forms of choice.
My smooth hair, laying just so, my clothes free of wrinkle,
My eyes, keen to the eyes of others,
My mind empty and void of what causes the push to move.
Empty of the idea that wakes us up, tears us down,
Or eats us away.

Uncentered, I sit now, In the small chair,
My mind concentrating on nothing, and everything,
The everything of there being nothing, giving me the idea,
The push, that the others have from something,
Tired of thinking of getting the push,
I walk away from you, it, and them, and theirs,
As my hair ruffles in the wind,
And I let go, 20 feet in the air,
3rd gear pinned.