Destination delayed, off course.
Life is a city bus. For some, at least. On schedule, same route,
Never a trip. Strange people sleeping next to you, the creepy man in a
Trench coat that always stands up.
And the smell of ***** from the child sitting alone, a tired look on their face
Before they realize their mother already got off.
They are an orphan now. Wandering between places that they are supposed to think
Of as family.
The attitude kicks in, drugs and suicide,
Soon it will all end. Abducted by demons left as inheritance, her mother was a *****.
Time to accept her legacy,
Escape from what she has dealt with and run, a savage salve now,
New York *******.
The city bus she started in has crashed,
Off course  and alone. She has no path. She writes poetry to keep herself sane.
She isn't really a *****. She releases about them.

Really, she lives on the streets, robbing from book stores and using old chalk from
Abandoned garages to paint her emotions.
Guerrilla artist, known by many, but not known at all.
Shaved her hair off and dressed as a man, cheaper than the designer ****
That is expected of women.

*I blame the city bus.