Now watch the way we move in unison.
All flowing forwards herded by the lights.
We swiftly weave between each opening.
Accelerating to prepare to stop.
But watch the way we all compete. We fight
To get ahead, to break away. It's war.
How dare you drive so slow in front of me
When I can't manage my own time. I'm late.
It's easy when you're only a machine
For me to hate you. I can disregard
That you are probably as important
As I believe I am. So I will sit
And passively aggressively curse your
Existence to my windshield. Justified.
This graceful chaos just drives us apart.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
Look at me, babe.
No. Really look at me.
Without that blank stare.
Without those bloodshot eyes.
Hear me with your whole head.
Listen now, with your whole heart.
You're hanging over the edge,
And this time, I can't pull you up.
We will go down together.
Oblivious to the sting of rushing cold air.
It's too dark to see.
We can only feel that familiar tingle deep in our stomachs.
Until suddenly
We hit th--
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
If I could paint my face in womanhood
I'd curl my lashes; stain my lips bright red.
Then finally I'd be the girl I should,
But I'll just let you see my flaws instead.
The day I found I could drink coffee straight
Was when I knew I'd lost my innocence
Because children cannot appreciate
When life's bitter. They crave benevolence.
The one tree I could never climb mocks me
From my front lawn and drops sap on my car.
If I could reach the top, then I would see
Exactly how small people really are.
I'm groping for the light. I've lost my way.
It's still dark in the middle of the day.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
You were born on the wrong side of the tracks
But now we're both on the train
******** about our overpriced hotdogs.
They ran out of ketchup.
A grandmother three rows down is
Screaming obscenities at her grandchildren
Because they won't be quiet.
Four more hours.
But there is no way I can play another
Game of cards. I've lost every one.
Out my window
Miles of poverty become miles of fields
In an alternating pattern of bleakness and desolation.
The lady across from me
Draws her curtain closed.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC