buoyant.

im floating, but there are fish and weights and rope and tides and rip currents trying their hardest to pull me from the surface. dragging me harder and harder everytime. friends. they do that to you. the problem with trying your hardest to rise from the bottom of the cesspool, the scourge of society, is that everything you are and the very fiber of your existence comes from the same scum you are trying to escape. its infectious. like a brutal airborne virus that wanes and waxes but never fully leaves. i feel crafted by my environment.. a piece of wood. and behind the strings that pull my wooden body are the puppeteers that call themselves friends. i can run all i want, truth is, i still have strings to pull me back. but still, i walk free. i cut the strings. i revolt on the puppeteers. i get to the edge of the table. i jump. midair, i find a new set of strings and a new puppeteer.