Spin me like a broken record
Hear the same notes, scratch, repeat
Does it thrill you to know my rythm?
Does it please you to know my pattern?

I am not who
I am what

And I resent that

I am not yours
I am theirs

I wish you'd recognize that

And I cannot be held anymore
In such a pedestal

The display is cracking
The flaws are through.

I'll paint a picture of your eyes
And get lost in the depth
Of my oil paints: only jewel tones
In blue green and amber
And just like in reality
I will fall in to the realms  of eyes
So stormy that to capture one moment
Is a sin.

Crooked smiles passed between
The rims of crystal wine glasses
And glimpses of someone else's yesterday
Whispered through pursed lips.

Delicate painted hands clasped
In laps fiddling with cashmere sweaters
And patent leather shoes
Tapping to the rhythm of expectation.

Through superficial pity and catty eyes
The lives of others were discussed
And though each teller would deny it
They revelled in the others sin

Building their own morals up
And blinding themselves to their own faults.
But in mothers dining room it's clear to see
The traits they share are wickedness and vanity.

Snow is a thing that glistens when it's new
Children stare wide eyed in anticipation
Of christening the fresh fluff with boot trails
And snow angels and men.

But as the days get shorter
And the nights grow longer
It begins to dim and dull to a grey suit
Covering the soft green grass
And chilling the warming air.

Until it comes to a point where
One cannot help but wish
That winter would take the hint
And simply turn to spring.

Let's take a few steps back
And look at where we've been
Torn and out in the gutter
Rain pounding on our backs

Now take a few steps forward
And look at where we've come
To stand amongst people
Who will never know our names.

Look at her
Her perfectly streamed hair of blond and amber
And that tiny waist.

Oh the way he looks at her
Like the last flower on earth and he a lonely bee
Her brightness draws him in.

Fine.
She can have what she wants.
I have no interest in competition.

But look how sweet he is!
With his lips so perfectly placed at kissable height
And his arms so tight around me.

Oh the way we talk!
Diving into the past as if discovering another world.
He fascinates me.

Wait.
I must have what I want.
I have no interest in competition.