Gaze at me, with you ever-so-slight smudged lipstick
Pop-punk lyrics issuing from your perfect mouth
Dark circles from the khôl and folly
Forgiveness from your youth
Torsion of perfection into a wry smile
Sober, you say, drunk, who'll walk upon my style?
Who'll dare? I dare, in laying bare, ballet hands,
The contents of my *****; You know, friends,
I may be an actress, and pretentious,
But my ability to lie's contentious.

The anger's in my cheeks
The words aren't in my mouth
I know like I have for weeks
Everything's only going south
If I stay to hear you say
Another word of your fanatic way
You cannot be wrong, sir
Your stance is on fleek
Your shoulders are strong, sir
But your logic is weak
And I know the ins and the outs and the world
And I'm sitting and spitting with my fists curled
Oh yes, oh yes, you have got the answer
But haven't you heard, you're not the new cancer?
I'm mincing my tongue, you're not mincing yours
And I know that my knowledge is worth just two straws
Wise men ask the fool
And they all sit and drool
But I burn in my anger
At how you don't know hunger.

A quiet getaway for two, a co(a)st,
Yeah, but how about, we skip the other?
And, if you "love", why don't I let you roast
With the other marshmallows, and wither
In your blissful lack, blind lust, busy life
Of red velvet and dollars? In my chair,
All the "love" I need to know is the strife
Of strings and sticks and synth and sliding air;
Give me Skull Candy, and my own fiddle,
Give me my view across the painted sky,
Give me my freedom to be a riddle,
Give me the chance to dance and still defy.
I'm not your pretty girl, nor femme fatale,
And if you fall, know you will really fall.

Frozen joints in a Georgian garret
Grudgingly stirring the fifth peasant soup
Shuffling shiftingly to share it
As lower eyelids, sleepless, hang and droop.
A right for some, a job in lands abroad
The luxury of learning dearly bought
And dearly payed for, still stalwartly moored
And chained with a ball, for living, sought.
I payed for a train to take me back
To the passion that will make a slave of me
But the company never had my back:
For two more score they would yet have of me.
What country fit for heroes is this?
What cradle for young hearts and minds make we?
And cushioned by the green stuff, dismiss
My wish that you may go where you take me.

My hands were stained with beetroot
My hands were sour with lemon
My hands were salt from cabbage
As I cried in your defence
"He would have kissed me on the steps
If I'd looked up, if I were not such a fool
The cue was there, you know
When he asked about my necklace."
I always wondered, so now
Where's this bold solution from?
And she said, were you a man
I wouldn't have to look.

I wish you understood how cool I can be
When I'm not hiding my eyes from what I perceive
To be the sun shining from yours
I wish you could see the nonchalant posts
I write when I'm hoping you're there with the ghosts
It's me who is the one so out of doors
Because I'm now tapping at the windows
Like the Dickensian kid I'm not
And that is how my sin flows
From wounds that cannot clot
Stem, stem, but I'm a social scientist
And not enough to be of interest
Of keeping myself to myself:
I need you to look up to my shelf.

I wish you understood how wanted I am
When I am chasing after the success-bound tram
Not the tail of your shooting star
I wish you could see how I'm queen of the sidewalk
The subject of everyone's gaze and idle talk
When my eyes aren't burning the West, so far
Because I'm now singing on street corners
Like the desperate artist I'm not
I wish my luck was like Jack Horner's
Would the Plum Land please be my lot?
Wait, wait, but I know I'm not life's patient
And too much to match your gradient
To be keeping myself to myself:
I need you to look up to my shelf.

I'm not falling off, but I could
I could call it off, but I would
Rather win please, even though
I concede I am losing,
And it's highly confusing
The way I go on with the show.

'Cos I'm now writing stupid letters
Like the complaining tenant I'm not
Counting you... the highest of my betters
And believe me there aren't a lot
Stop, stop, but maybe I'll write something good
And sufficient to get a Laureatehood
'Cos I'm not keeping myself to myself:
I need you to look up to my shelf.

These days in budgeted decadence
You twist on your thrifted finery
And leave me to mine own
You are children marching the cobblestones
Like soldiers into lines that you know very
Little of, together and alone
Collective and individual struggles fought
Black coffee for the morning
Ethanol for some inky hour after twelve
None of your souls have been bought
Yet, and I hope they won't in the true dawning
From the cutting of the safety net, may you delve
Into futures sufficient and abundant,
All ye heirs apparent.