Anger was my passion, the pen I was given to show it was my voice, but oh, the times when I used it irresponsibly, an abuse to the power I was given... though it could have been used for good despite it's rep, I used my anger for a stereotype, I used it to push away.
I am from an early morning where's stars unknown have yet to be seen in the lightening of the sky, but I do so hope that you see me and you look at me and say hello for I am among stars unknown.
Homelessness - for me - was the shame the raw shame I felt emanating from my mother any time she had to ask a friend or her own ******* mother for a place to stay.
Homelessness was the embarrassment of "I could come over to your house to play!" "Oh wait..."
Homelessness was the frustration of yet another house that we could not get we apply for all the ones we can afford and yet...? Still we sleep on a couch and hope to find something.
Homelessness becomes hopelessness in so short a time. The longer we have no home, the longer we feel like we'll never have one.
I am simply not going to see things the same f-cking way as you do and that scares the f*ck out of me. Not to be coy. Not to tease you with an asterisk. Not to censor my feelings. Not to frustrate you. Not to make you go "don't do that" Do not ******* test me.
Will you ever love me? Will you ever come to me, and tell me how long you've waited to see me? Likely not. But I will dream. I will dream of your words.
I am a careless wanderer my mother before me the same when we think that we finally have a permanent home suddenly we are lifted by the backs of our necks and put back on the road because careless wanderers don't get to live comfortably careless wanderers can't live like normal people careless wanderers sleep with men who try to **** them and go back and go back and go back to him mother goes back to him because at least he has money. At least he pays our bills. It doesn't matter that he tried to take out my mum's eye because he puts food on the table that she could have worked for herself... I want him to die.
Today I held my sword above my head, no man with wisdom can save me now the world decided to fight against me but my will is strong my rage grows and I control this place.
I am always running out of time I am running down a spiral staircase the hands following me and spinning in a way I can't quite describe besides quick and skilled because it goes on forever I can hardly take a break before the hands catch back up to me and I am on the run again.
Childhood is like snuggling in a big, warm blanket. Then, as I grow older, I lay my arms over the top. I become an adult, and the blanket is ripped away from me, just like my mum used to do when I wouldn't wake up to my alarm. Quick, and cold. I shiver.