Worn-In

There's a worn-out sharpie sketch
of a compass
drawn on those old converse.
Old shoes.
Same message.
I'm control which direction they go.

Mud stains,
and sole discoloration.
A perfection representation.
There's a story behind each scuff.
A rally of tally marks.
A diamond in the rough.

There are holes from the nights
I ran from home.
And there are holes from the days I spent trying to find my way back.

The road less traveled in packed underneath the canvas grips.
I don't know where I'm going,
but these shoes have seen where I've been.

A little less worn-out.
A little more worn-in.