All of her friends are reflective surfaces,
She is every verb, adjective, and noun,
Complimentary conversations as greetings
The words bitten will come back to hound.

Inspiration is the greenest form of envy,
By means of law, canvases should be handcuffed,
So that her every tide is a tsunami,
And the world shall fill their glasses till they've had enough.

Mountain rocks depicted with precision,
Her neck meets the outer layer of the atmosphere,
Her fork digs into words of appreciation,
A yellow smile beneath every crushed veneer.

In the jungle of artists striving for life,
Her nails are red wax tearing at every masterpiece,
And on every name she climbs ahead,
Till every deer is scared of her remorseless teeth.

Perched between two islands, I stand
Praying the world will trip over my hand

The soot emerging from one side gave a speech,
Earth is towed around the sun with a thin leash,
So we bite at it like aliens trying to preach,
As if we're better off alone, so we'll take a part each.

Ignorance hollered from the other side,
Man can dissect his body and breathe his pride,
New laws of the universe are getting employed,
One more step from cannibalism getting justified.

And we believe the man with the white teeth,
The water is muddied, their minds must have leaked,
They make plans to pull the ocean from beneath me,
So I hold my breath, and pray for one last tree.

But as they run along the map they don't coincide,
Mace and verain, one hand was black, the other was white,
The plans they made to cut in half change to just one bite,
And the loser is the one who uses the letters of Unite.

Now the water is full of dynamite and grenades,
A thought that started with a heart ended with a *****,
Knives hovering above the dying grass in wait,
Only one ***** mouth shall eat the whole cake.

And perched between two islands, I stand,
Watching clawing sharks marring the map.

A filthy legacy passed to the ones yet to come,
Though the sphere they're juggling is long long gone,
With stale rivers, grey skies and bribed suns,
What is it we're fighting for? A world fit for no one.

I'm watching dreams coming true,
Hoping I might get struck by the lightning,
Or make a deal with the perfect timing,
But here I am standing in a downpour,
And my feet are getting muddied to the sidelines,
Walking backward to avoid the spotlights,
A ghosted smile to applaud,
The mugger of my drafted thought,
Making a home out of recycled art,
Afraid of the finish line, afraid of the start,
Watching dreams coming true,
Rockets launching out of the blue,
And all I speak is rewind,
Cassette tapes losing their minds,
Saying oh I could easily be that,
With lazy arms and folded hands,
Oh I'm so sick of sitting back,
Watching dreams coming true,
That every shooting star feels like a back stab,
Lost in the preproduction of a daydream,
This paper is my stage, the spotlight is the moonbeam,
Till one hand slips open the handle,
My door being open to the world is more than I could handle,
Every word is shaky, every feeling more like a scandal,
As if the world is about to end the next day,
I try to grab everything that comes my way,
As if I could balance two minds in one,
Open the next page before the last is done,
Juggling too many identities in one person,
Nothing is enough, haven't yet found the best version,
But they're fagments that don't match,
Maybe I should start from scratch..
I'm watching dreams coming true,
Hoping I might get struck by the lightning,
But it seems like there's no perfect timing.

Gradually I'm losing interest,
Negotiating and bargaining
has ****** the energy out of me,
Every one of my reasons
has been worn out,
And the wind's wrath
has taken everything in its path,
What is left is lost
under masses of dust,
Excuses why the world
is on autopilot,
And we should sit back
And watch it burn,
Because it will burn
Whether we want it to or not,
My mind asks questions,
And what I'm met with
are not answers,
are not reasons,
I'm only met with white noise,
The sound of walking feet,
The sound of closing doors,
The sound of an empty well,
The wheels rolling,
And people sleeping and waking,
As if we're meant to learn
how to walk on this thin rope,
And never do more than breathe,
How am I supposed to sit down,
and persuade myself
that tomorrow I will try again,
I tried yesterday,
And I tried today,
But I'll always be painted
pink
and submission
in their eyes,
And I'll always be painted
"third world"
And "underdeveloped"
To the passerbys,
And sadly every color of those
is permanent.
I may not be the only one
with a breath left,
But the others who gave up
on their lungs years ago,
They're trying to mute
our sound of breathing,
To fill our lungs with soot,
To  mummify our sense of being,
To push us under the wings
of what is morally accepted,
The morals that are trending this year.
And I know it,
That eventually we will recede,
Just like history tells,
And just like I am about to
bow down and look at my feet,
And brush another crude comment
under the carpet.