The people that care about you,
Out number the one person that doesn’t anymore.
Life is worth more than that,
Take it into consideration.

Bust a rhyme
Not a crime
Take your time
Everything’s fine
Keep up the climb
Stop the wine
Reach for the vine
Forget exterior design
That’s the bottom line

Humungous pupils.
Little girl.
Attempting to realize the ways of the world.
Sinning and spinning,
  she twists and she twirls,
Through the tornado that fate seems to whirl.

So sure of herself,
  yet quite the mess.
Eager to learn and quickly progress.
She lays awake in constant distress,
  pondering humanity's stress to impress.

How on Earth are we all alive?
Buzzing around this big beehive.
Working for life then turning to dust.
Just for the honey, our bodies we bust.

Investing our trust in invented ideals.
Shunning away what's important and real.
What ever happened to "see, touch, and feel?"
We're worshipping paper, and mountians of steel.

Our slates were clean the day we were born.
From magazine pages, our knowledge was torn.
We were taught by Barbies and trucks to conform.
And we learned about love through movies and ****.

But imagine a life without fiction and wealth.
We'd all be forced to act as ourselves.
Without influence or image to compare and contrast,
  we'd have less confusion about how we should act.

A society raised on make believe.
Injected with ***, diamonds, and greed.
Living our lives on borrowed time,
  and filling the spaces with Marlboros and wine.
But then again, I'm just a girl,
  with humungous pupils in a made up world.

I step in shallow passion puddles.
I don’t swim in love-filled lakes.
I dive straight into scarlet sin,
  and drown in my mistakes.
So many men I’ve left astray,
  and led into dismay.
I’m a pretty, pouting, predator,
  pouncing on her prey.

In the past my heart was glass,
  shattering many times.
But soon I got through the shades of blue,
  and resorted to a life of crime.
Stealing hearts without regard,
  even if they were occupied,
  ‘cause they can’t resist a green-eyed kiss,
  with lips that taste like wine.

In due time I’ll make you mine
  until I’m through with you.
Then toss you away when I feel it’s the day,
  just like a man would do.

When in which I gain control
  you’ll do just what you’re told.
‘Cause I don’t fit the old school mold
  of that  “typical woman” role.

It’s not my fault you sold your soul too soon,
  it’s not that serious.
I just wanted to test the waters,
  **** a cat for being curious?

Everything I attempt to write
  seems as if I'm forcing the words from underneath my tongue.
I am one, among many,
          and there are plenty more where I came from.

My DNA is shared and swapped.
I am a drop in the sea of infinite combinations... but here I am.

I suppose it'd be nice to believe that my life is planned.
That I am heaven sent, and I should spend each day paving my way
  in hopes of reaching some sort of divine ending,
  but I'm still mending, from what my past has lent me,
  and I bet everything I have that this will take a while.

I am a child,
  a horse running wild, carrying my baggage behind me.
But don't remind me,
  'cause that's what the whisky is for.

And yet, no matter how depressed,
    or blue, or just like you I become,
    I somehow find a reason for opening my eyes tomorrow.
I am a swallow.
Far too free to ever
                                be
                                      with
                                            anything.
I am medicine.
I will heal, and hold, and mend your cold, but I will soon be gone, as will you.
And this is the only truth that I am aware of
  aside from bugs, and trees, and creeks, and dreams.

We can try to hold onto something and make it our own.
We can attempt to lock it away for days and days,
    and wait for a place that will eventually become the word forever.
But I know; this is impossible.
Not probable.

Everything is a countdown.
      Three. Two. One...
                NOW.