Will I always be your sloppy seconds?
A binge that you will end up regurgitating in the end
That first addictive taste of a cigarette that consumes you
And I am left, smashed on the ground

Will I always be your escape route?
A rescue boat from the lousy life you are living
Lying, deceiving, a black hole ready to cave in

Will I always be there at 3 am when you're lonely?
Sadly, I will
I will stupidly be more than ready to come and save you
From your lonely, drunken nights
But will you?
When I am in need
When I feel like there is nothing left to live for
Will you be ready for me?

I will forever be your last resort
A sinful secret
The last bottle of whiskey
That you downed so nicely
And you will forever be my ever so holy number one
That smooth drive home to your house
When all innocence was not lost
And I feel whole once more

Will I always be a fool?
An optimistic, hopefully, trusting, fool
Thinking this time will be different
Thinking I wont end up alone once more.

The thing about glass shoes is that they break far too easily
In order to wear them, you have to glide like an angel
Sing like a delicate hummingbird
And weigh as much as one of their feathers
Wearing glass slippers takes a lot of practice.
If you press a little too hard, your feet are engulfed by glass shards
It's the fine line between beauty and self-harm.
Glass slippers are meant to be worn by princesses.
They symbolize all your fairy-tale dreams coming true
If only they didn't break whenever I set my foot in them.
I do my best to make myself petite for my glass slippers
Using the old pieces to carve out my cheekbones and make my love handles disappear
Somedays I wonder if I've crossed that line between beauty and harm
But I'll do anything it takes to get that Cinderella waistline.
You know what they say,
"A dream is a wish your heart makes,"
I have to do what my heart says, right?

I’m so easily distracted
My inner vision gets refracted.
While I’m nothing like a dope
Inside my head a kaleidoscope
Makes the movies in my head
Sometimes keep me in bed
Until I see the world squarely
But, that happens so rarely.

I’m regularly absentminded
And organizationally blinded;
The kind who walks across the floor
And forgot what he was going for.
It’s not that I can’t tie my shoes
But may not know which remote to use.
But, if I set something down somewhere
I might not be able to find it on a dare.

In school I went to the wrong classes
And could almost never find my glasses.
It would be wise if people would wear
Name tags that tell me who and where
We know each other in full detail.
If left to me, every time I will fail.
It’s not that I am a brainless person,
It’s just that I’m the forgetful version.

Why do we ignore the poor
As they wash up on our shores
Children drown in the deep
While we sit comfy in our seats

The fireflies rain down
Tearing their homes to the ground

Still youre unable to comprehend
the love lost in the souls of men

Green God of America
Manufactured consent
Why should you care
If you can pay your rent

I.
My mother places a dot of
Vermillion
On my forehead the same hands
That have helped
Bury a million
Unborn babies in the lush green
Fields that the brochures display

II.
The young bride enters her groom's house
Her alta colored feet leave red
Bloodstains in her wake
A young girl trails behind
places her little feet
in the same prints and
Waits

III.
The gotar mali has her arms tied above
Her head and her legs splayed blood
Drops from her body and the officials
Frame it in a green background and
call it a flag, call it a country, call it a
Dying woman's honor

IV.
My mother places a dot of
Vermillion
on my forehead
And I wonder if it's way of
branding
Women with an honor
they did not ask for
And cannot control

I want to slice open this blanket of illusion
that seems to coat
reality the way the night sky should,
because here it thrives:
pouring over the lit up city and it's cable lines,
in the iPhone 7's
and the moving wallpapers,
in the water (soda) that I drink everyday,

I feel it in the wasted seconds that tick on by,
the petty, whines
of shady drawn, stick figures
surrounding me, it feels like
sickeningly sweet, sticky fingers from having pried open
a can of sugar coated lies,

like a dollar bill floating upon
the wind,
my high pitched giggle is snatched by blaring car horns
swallowed by an adolescent's carelessness,
stomped on by the
cross guard transporting kids and air across the cracks
in the sidewalk,

I can feel it underneath my drooping eyelids,
how they
beg for truth (or sleep) in the middle of the night,
when I can't seem to get the **** math problem done,
in the slouching of my back on my
black, duct taped chair, for we all know
it is duct tape that holds you together these days,

I flail around with words and colors
flashing in my mind, showing on my skin,
I try to stick my earbuds in
and blast pretty worlds across the scenery,
but even then until the very end
the illusion doesn't go away...
and I still feet so empty and sweet,
kind of like bleach
being poured
into a cake batter,

and so on I dance and writhe through each day,
still feeding myself poison disguised as
comfort food,
still covering reality with
the blanket of illusion,

still complaining of my stomach ache,
and claiming that for some people,
nothing will ever be enough.