Composition of Elasticity.

I need to change my socks.
I've been wearing the same pair for several vintages now and the stories are starting to show. I knew the holes would inevitably grow and expose my bare toes...
These are the stains of an idealist perspective, reflective of my avid concentration and journeys through my rabid imagination where the dreams stretched the threads beyond their stitching and cotton no longer bares the composition of elasticity.
I need to change my socks.
Years ago, my Grandmother embedded my initials on the heels in red thread and now I fear my name will become worn out by the thousands of hills I have yet to overcome.
But this odor...this fucking odor that I can no longer disguise with harmless white lies about salts and powders that I've tried. The damp stench is undeniably coming from me.
I need to change my socks.
I'll soon find a pair that contour to the difficult extremities of my visions and bind with my wisdom. But for now, I'll refuse to remove my shoes at least until each intertwined thread becomes unstitched.

This is the first poem I wrote as a 19 year old. I'm switching my style up. If you pay close attention to the words, you'll see that I'm not really talking about my damn socks. There's more to it. What do you think I'm talking about?

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