What kind of world

It's this kind of world.
A kind in which it is 
only kind to be kind to 
the kind of people who 
are kind to you. The kind
of world where swirling
your own coffee
trumps bumping your neighbor
softly with no stick.

The kind of world in which
to walk is to fail
to run. Were you born
to run, world? Were you 
shorn of your formative
fun? I have wishes for 
you. I feel these dreams.

I feel these dreams will
spill into the milk and
I will not help but 
cry. These tears are 
like the prayers of the
thoughtful. Worth
less. What kind of world
makes the me into the only
glee? Here, questions are
bastions for temporary 
failure to solve. We are this
world, that is the kind. We 
and the asphalt and the space
dust and the ants and the 
moles. Our hills are our 
wills. Our wills trill as they
sprinkle music onto our cup
cake world. It's a hand 
held hold, this world, a 
cliffside whose guide to 
verticality is something
that resemble the center of
this immediate entire earth.