I'm filled to the tips of my toes
with woes of my self-pitying prose
that tries to flow across the page
but only gets stuck, igniting my rage

nothing I do seems to produce
any ounce of respect,
even if I give it my best, over and over and over again
until there is nothing left but my own best, pest.
(me)

It's a contest that life and I play
but every time: I lose and I make an excuse
but life simply refuses to see it through, to give it a change
to show I can dance to the beat of my drum

Some *** on the street once spoke to me,
saying all my life I will be fleeing from things.
Bullied and put down; a girl can only accept so much regret
and emails that she never would get

Yet, I brush of my shoes
even though I know I'll probably always lose
at this game called life that has become my strife.
If only I could end this with a simple lie.

It's still not my time to die
even though I want to kiss it all goodbye;
I have found a reason to stay,
a boy, who has pushed my demons away

He's taught me to persevere
without having to sip from an ice, cold beer.
"my dear", he whispers, soft in my ear,
"I'll wipe your tears from your eye and steer you away from your fears."

A gift; he has been a gift
amid my own destruction,
I am learning to function, to beat life at it's own game
and to get away from this same, lame pain.

The boy has washed the dust from my shoes,
replaced my woes with beautiful prose that decorates my heart
and finally learns to become a piece of
still, marvelous art.

I'm smart, so I will not forget
that I am always in debt to this brown eyed
Guide that has guided me by to my light and
taught me to beat this game called life.