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.