as real as the stars in the sky,

as your discontent in me,

the fear that things stay the same,

on the day i turn thirty-three.

a broken couple eating barbecue,

roadside on its way to an empty home.

the thirty types of chemo,

swimming in my mother's veins.

the same day drink that repeats itself,

when i have a day free.

the screen i can't detach from,

never working on me.

the fear of talking and rehab,

only caring when i drink,

the only time my soul ever sings,

on a mattress getting wasted,

hoping time will give me wings.