I was busy planting flowers on other planets for my great escape to a world where people don't laugh at your possibility of doing terrific things, a world where your bone truth doesn't make you feel vulnerable like someone skinned you raw.
What a rude awakening to find out that the stratosphere doesn't hold the answers that will make me feel alright. My little red rocket was just a futile dream and now that the impenetrable glass ceiling has been meticulously charted in every possible direction I am directionless.
I only ever knew to keep looking up because the horizon never seemed as close.
And now every other worn out soul who was waiting in the line, still as ice, to get on board is ******* and hurt at the harsh reality of their situation. Park benches have lost their romance and 3am is nothing but bleak, when your spirit is rotting in the trash bin besides you.