(not a) Slide

Shiny steel surface by the handrail,
Now dull, long since polished.
Inviting as it moves you by
Never yours for you to try.
For there are things screwed in place…
No,
Riveted.
Up and up, evenly they space them,
More metal upon metal
To forbid you any pleasure.
Because the world doesn’t
Want you to slide.
It needs you to hold on, wait.
If you can’t wait, you walk.
When you can’t walk,
You slide.
Stationary steel surface passing by,
Always dull, not once polished.

A quick note

This poem is part of a small series I wrote while navigating the NYC subway system.

not the place for it came about after depression unexpectedly kicked me to the gutter during my time in a city I'd always dreamed of living in. It's my first attempt at poetry and only came about as a result of a microdosing experiment I'd undertaken in an attempt to overcome what I was going through.

This experience of writing out the muck while hurtling through the darkness in an ageing metal snake, while under the influence of psilocybe cubensis helped me claw a way out of the despair in a way traditional therapy was never able to.

Anyway. Just thought you should know that.