Slight

My breath seems slight and challenged,
there is worry all around.
My ancestors, who I do not worship, cry out from their graves,
"Watch who comes to your door!" They didn't know.
They want me to know that they didn't know so I know.

The weight of everyday life hums in my chest and my ears,
there is no relent.
I must face it every day and I am tired.

If I scream and I make no sound, is my fear real? Am I the only one to see it?
If a train bears down and I deny it's existance, doesn't everyone realize
it will still run me over?

Ignorance is a kind of bliss that allows one to frolic in the foolishness of their fantasy,
of what the world ought to be.

No way that the situation ought to be so easy going.
A butterfly flaps its wings and a hurricane forms in the Atlantic.

I must move as each movement affects everyone else,
keeps others safe or could put others in jeopardy.
Humanity is my business, right? (That's Dickens, I think)

Listening to the hum of the universe as I stumble, hoping not to smack my head