and no matter how hard i try-how many rocks i climb, and bucket of swear i collect and certificates to show that it paid off-
no matter how many races i win-or great grades i receive or how nice i am to them-
no matter how many times im there-and the how are yous and smiles-
no matter how hard i try to just make everyone feel--the opposite of i.
its not enough to ever be important
for to my sister
who does nothing
who sits on her *** but begs for my help
who has no idea how to run through life and always needs me to hold on to the back of her bicycle as she learns to ride for the first time
whom treats them all like **** but can facade better than i
ill always come in second.
always
i mean nothing
i am nothing
no one ******* cares
and now,
i dont even know if i do either.

Shes poor- with a dead beat dad whom lives in the house but no connection-he stays on the couch while mother works her *** off cleaning houses and sweeping the floors of ones whoms only problem is their maunfuctioning macbooks.
shes poor with dreams-shes in college working so hard she could build a town of workers from her one mind and soul. her dedication is stronger than Lebron James to his game, stronger than Katie Ledeckys swims to win gold. She works hard and plays hard as Wiz Kalifa parades- to get that trophy of success.
shes poor with dreams and loans-she poops them out like twice a day, they pile like beyonces money by the second they pile just so she can achieve-so she can get that trophy so she can crawl her way out of her poverish ways-with a dead beat dad that lives on the couch with no connection and a mother cleaning homes of the macbook pros
shes poor with dreams and loans and now debt. She graduated highest of her class-4.0 no more no less-perfection is she, she always has been-
but none of that seemed to matter for now all that stares back at her is debt and defeat.
shes poor with no where to turn-why did she dig a deeper hole of de,bt why the hell is she paying out of her *** while the their children in college parents make double,
triple,
quadruple of her mother. Their parents can pay but because they wrote a few right answers to the test they pass with no blood on their hands-clean-
Those kids will keep the change, the change she has been trying to achieve her entire life
the change she bust her heart for
the change that will never come
in a society like ours.

theres a bully in my bathroom.
she resides on my floor-just staring back at me
she just lays there smiling and taunting me
shes great at doing it-for she accomplishes it without words
i never understand why she picks on my but then again she picks on everyone
i can see right thru her
shes that superficial and that basic
her body is just one shape no curves no nothing
but because of her-girls across the nation want to go in hibernation forever.
theres a bully in my bathroom
like i said i can see right thru her
she stands right at our foot height she isnt even tall
our lives revolve around her for shes not just in mine but shes in yours too
she lurks with the doctors and puts on a sweet face
for they think shes a huge help
but shes the biggest bully around
she comes in all colors and shapes.
only stands tall with the doctors
theres a bully in my bathroom
and when i step on her she just weighs me down.
weighs us down
theres a bully in my bathroom
and shes taking over the worlds self esteem
but maybe it isnt her-maybe its societies standards

and now the racism sprouts-or at least now it being recognized. because "the kids of the spelling bee should be american" and "nothing more american than a good spelling bee..oh wait all the caucasians are eliminated" are all tweets that are taking center stage and outraging millions.
about time.
yes i said it-its about time
because whenever there are super racist tweets about blacks, and hispanics
and dont fogret the offensive nicknames like darquisha and the crazy accents that television presents us with-
it seems to be a joke-or no one really gives two *****
and its heart smattering
tear rolling
that this ****
still
exists.
and the fact people actually have ***** to tweet **** like that-
but would have no ***** at all to step infront of a colorful crowd
made of colorful people
and spit out a word of disgust
think twice
this is america *****
not the 1900's in america
is 2014 *****
move foward.get over it.

im a basket full of eggs
so hard yet so fragile
one shake on rattle
one quick long drop
and ill pour over the surface letting all of my organs show
they will spill and expand rapidly
drying up the earths soil
ill gasp for air-try to cartch my breath
im in a race
in a battle
to keep my eggs from shatterting so easily
to keep my eggs hard broiled
the be hard egg shell and strong on the inside
i strive to be that broiled egg.
so even when im dropped
i wont shatter

i dont know what i am more upset with or who.
the world for making my dreams to high and far away to catch
or me for not trying hard enough
its tough to try
to reach the heights of the epire state building
to cross the atlantic ocean by just swimming it
to fly to hong kong with a jet i made all.by.my.self.
its hard to reach these things that are called dreams,
these things we are told to create at such a small age,
that disney makes so easy to come alive,
at a wish upon a star,
at a rub at a bottle,
with a simple kiss with some random guy ive never met.
dreams are so far away
my dreams that i oh so long for
the things i can taste so strongly when pucker my lips,
the dreams i can see so clearly when i shut my eyes real hard and wait until the tears come flowing down my open pored cheeks,
when the salty rivers take over my face and die the color of my skin to pink
these dreams
im supposed to be so excited about and spend my life catching
but when there is no way to get there
with out the right plane, with out the right map,
with out the right pilot without the right tools,
theres no way to reach my silly ol dreams that i stare at in the mirror every **** day,
that i stare at through the television scree,
that i dream about and replace myself with another
i can see myself so clearly
i know i can make it
i know i could sucseed i know i can
if i was just given that passport, that right pilot
to cross the ocean and land in the right airport
but for now i have nothing
but a jar of wishful thinking,
and a page full of remorse,
and cheeks stained of salt water,
and a computer whos keys are so tired of me expressing the same **** feeling,
dreams,
will remain
in my sleep.

you constantly manipulate the game-you toss and turn and hit the ball in all crooked ways, you scream crazy **** and pierce my soul and degrade me to levels not even six feet under could reach.
i seem to let it slide like a baby on ice because believe it or not, the louder my voice, the quieter my soul. I hate the confrontation and i dont see the point of stirring the ***.
i let you run train tracks over my face and flatten my self esteem so quickly but i cant seem to cut you off for good like an umbilical cord to a newborn.

i say one thing to you, because after all, you are always so big about being up front and in your face, you ask us why we dont talk our problems out and let our pandoras box open.
well. we did
we didnt agree-and then you become a power outage shutdown so quick and at this point, im more like pepco instead of BGE-im not quick to turn you back on.
I dont look through the same lens as you, and yes i might not see the bright side-im no sunny side eggs but hey, you are no sunflower either.

i dont understand your doubles. dont touch me and not expect to be touched.
we are friends sure but at this point im not sure if we are seesawing on a not wanting to crack the egg or if we are friends at all.
you are now shut down and at this point im like pepco-not sure when i will try to turn you back on, you bop me around like an abusive parent on drugs-you are so sure that you are right.
im hardly ever right, and i own it but you, im not sure
i cant let you use your pass about your past to get out of jail no for we all, victims and criminals have to own our past. use it to walk forward not run backwards down a hill

i know i know, im a *****, a stuck up ***** with alot to say and yes-i throw the memory of a 19 year old guy performing a ***** on me at only 5 but to be honest thats no excuse either.
we all have hot pots that are quickly dropped because of the complexity of our journeys but its no excuse to shut down. and now writing this more and more, im figuring out that this is not just a letter to you but a letter to myself. you gotta own your advice before dispersing it.
if you need a break, have a break
everyone needs a kitkat bar sometimes
i totally understand

theres a story,
that runs through her veins, that feeds through her heart, that reads through her eyes.
theres a beginning to the start the journey- a middle to crush her dreams- an an ending that she never reads out loud. for its not what she looks like; her pigmentation who identifies her no-
nor the length of the locks that are apparent from the scalp of her head no, its nor the coarsness of it or the silkyness.

its not her tiny waist or her abnormally chicken shaped legs no- it is the story- the stories which run through her veins, feed through her heart, and reads through her eyes.
these are her limbs, her bones and structure. these are what her character and compassion are made of, these are her creators.

the stories run so deep digging a deeper hole within her soul. the more she remembers and replays like reruns of friends the more her soul seems to loose a bit of itself. a bit of the joy and the warmth that they used to bring.
remembering the giving up of them is something that will follow her in the shadows for years to come

she doesn't miss her family, she's not homesick: when she says she wants to go home she wants to go back-
back the those times when they were all right here.
she wants to smell the sweet loaves of bread and mixes of aromas coming from grannies kitchen. she wants to hear her voice again scolding pop-pop as he took a bite of the chicken. she wants to go home. home to the weird smell of mothballs and the cluttered home that existed way before hoarders. she wants to go back to the light that shined in the living room hitting the cherry red coffee table just enough to have it warm at touch.

she wants to go back to the trips to the super market with uncle carl who could never say no. she wants to go back to that room- where the chocolate plastic barbie stood so tall 3 ft to be exact. she wants to go back to the christmas'-

the one with three christmas trees and one especially decorated by gail- with so many cartoons and lights you just knew it was that time.
she wants to go back to the family gatherings where there were fights but just ooh so much love and everyone held it together for the queen of this family.
when she says she wants to go home she isnt home sick no-

shes memory fond and hurting of the past for the future seems to constantly ****** away the ones who make the most strong of memories and impact on her life.
she wants to go back-bring them back for one last meal one last hug one last sound from their voice one last goodbye

but she knows the only goodbye lies between her and the tombstone which marks the footprint in the sand, and the watering of the soil from her eyes that will be ever lasting every time their footprint reoccurs, she knows goodbyes with people most loved doest seem to happen but the real reason why isnt because they are suddenly snatched away-
its because-
we will never be ready
to say
goodbye.

The sterile smell that covers my hands like a snug glove became so familiar. The trip to the intensive care unit at the same **** hospital became repetitive, it was  like waking up in the morning and going to school....it became a traditional trip.
each trip was followed with the sorrow, followed a darkness...the coldness and darkness that stretched over the hospital's interior snatched away laughs and cries and shoulders to cry on like the grim reaper. it came in like the plauge and there was just not turning back.
and the worst part? the news, the messengers, were so mototoned.  no feeling. no emotion in the delivery of the news. its always a cold hearted "im sorry" with a side of "there gone".

These highly paid messengers whom wear the white coat which should symbolize purity and angel like creatures, cover up their mistakes and sew up the secrets with "we did everything we could". but when they actually accompanied the road to nothingness. When they actually stuck the bullet in the wound, when they actually choked up and messed up-they punched in the wrong numbers to the wrong program causing it to shut down but we are all only human right.

But the real tragedy passing the fact a lifes last grain of sand has fell to the other side of the hour glass, are the mourning humans whom still lurk in the shadows of the same **** gross hospital. Its as each time I enter the doors of the hospital, i enter the realm of death. Each time we enter death is delivered to us and each time we step into that same **** hospital the rain showers of despair and hurt, and confusion.

All that is left now are the memories in-beaded in our minds and rest in the crevices of our hearts. All that lingers are those giggles and smiles and the past. All they left was a footprint..... in our hearts. And now we stand.
Left with the sterile.meek.sound...and the coldness...of the same, **** hospital.

remember when we were best friends? and every time you created a rainshower i was always there as the sun to clear up the puddles. remember when we would run our mouths like motor boats but there was always something to talk about. remember when we would laugh until we developed six packs and our lungs gave up remember when we were eachothers diaries remember when we were best friends?

remember on the first day of high school we were eachothers solid rocks and behind eachother every step of the way; and remember the second year when we didnt call. remember when i was there when you stole that snickers but i sealed my mouth as shut as an antique chest and the secret was lost in my secret garden never to be spoken of again. remember when those girls we saw as caddy and were the meaning of mean girls? we always said we would never transform into them. remember when you changed your hair masked your face and caged your feelings to become one of those plastic barbies? remember when you stabbed her in the back and kicked dirt in her face for initiation and left her in the middle of hallway and you flipped your hair up in the uniformed step away..with the mean girls. Honey you were the lindsay lohan of that clique-not the leader but the caboose of that train. you were to blinded by the shiny fame that dangled in your face.

remember when karma came back and bit you in the ***? remember the rainshower you created in result of being dropped and kicked to the side, in result of being that doll left on the shelf as result of being that tissue that was blown and thrown away as if you meant nothing remember that?

you finally remembered how i used to be you sun to clear up those puddles and make you warm again but now, you will ALWAYS remember, the way you used up my sun rays and threw me out when finished, the way you ran over my feet in order to get in that line the way you made me my spine just a little bit stronger with the tears that watered my esteem.

but what goes around comes around. im no longer your sunshine, but im now the darkness that lurks, that nothingness, i have no more rays of sunshine to warm you up and pick you up,
for what goes around comes around
i bet you will always remember that.

Breathing in that familiar smell of sweet coffee that screams Starbucks i sit quietly inside....alone..but actually, i am accompanied by some cheap elevator music which closely resembles country, and my grande cup of thoughts. This grande cup feels more like a thousand grande cups: a possy almost. This possy fills the empty Starbucks with small talk and the soft murmur that many people usually create. This possy keeps me way more company than any other living breathing flesh.

The thought that sits closest beside me is my mask that i purchased before i could pick out my favorite colored sweater. I wear this mask every day of my life although not always at own will. its hard to admire whats staring back you every morning when your cards dont match the ones on screen. It goes like this, i feel as if i had horse like pony tail hair crawling down my black so silky and taking a skydive at my *** would make it a HELL of a lot easier to wear this mask of mine in which has the title of: MY FACE.
But what is it about the crystal blue eyes that show the rhythm of the ocean or the solidity of the sky? WHAT is it about the deep forest green or the eyes that you can see more than just the sky that is so appealing? HAVENT YOU HEARD??
"THE DARKER THE BERRY THE SWEETER THE JUICE?"

So why does it seem the whiter the paper the more in favor. the blonder the hair the greater the fair, you seem to have in life. MAYBE its the recommendations in which the tv inscribes for us. Maybe its the runway that draws the rules of beauty.
The twiggier the prettier
the fatter the more laughter you receive from people who dont even know
your ****
name.
As I stare at the reflection and into the deep pools of confusion I fish out decent..and different,
but not pretty. I never arrive at the adjective pretty when i look at the reflection staring back at me but
does it ever occur that i do not strive to be merely pretty but something more.
DO NOT and i mean DO NOT EVER
slap a label onto my forehead titled pretty.
dont slap the sticker of cute either.
find another **** sticker
that you can not find at a store, this sticker is so original that it doesn't exist, its so intricate, considered more than an antique
for I AM MORE THAN A MISSION TO ARRIVE TO PRETTY.

Do not look into my cage where I sing and call me beautiful- for its funny how that so called gift seems to be nothing but a mere sample at a beauty supply. Im not a biscuit for you cant butter me up and salt me down for ill never be your favorite dish you can take a bite out of for comfort. I am more than just a piece of meat for I am more than just an adjective for you will not be able to pick up a dictionary and collect the word that fits me best.

I am more, WE are more, we cant be thrown into a binder full of women---no, for no binder is large enough to hold the complexity of just
one. woman.

Listen to the sound, and loose it, its sweet music, and dance with me, for there is beauty in the world so much beauty in the world. But we put a parental block on it we ignore that ad
we throw away that piece as if they are the unwanted leaves to the strawberry,
or the peel to the banana---we drive by that ordinary girl.

We sadly fail to realize-fail to notice the blue skies, notice the butterflies, but you will NOT fail to notice me.
Now, Starbucks is full-full of other rocky mountain climbs and terrible tumbles. It has become a pool of not only coffee...but pools and pools and rivers and seas,
of insecurities.

the world.
filled with pools of water and washed away regret. but so deep with regrets and fear of the fore coming.
the world. with trees of beautiful green and red roses too dont ever seem to bloom in the eyes of the people for the continuation of constant world war three with our physical appearance.
the world. with trees that stand as high as our worries and grass as sharp as the pain that lingers within, it seems so easy to wake up at the crack at dawn and take our good time to paint a smile and carefully dot our eyes with the plastic of the worlds personality. but the world
is so beautiful-so pure. the water so crisp and clean.
until the touch of fingers contaminates the beauty within, shreds apart the trees and crumbles the structure until there is
nothing
but insecurity.
we paint our face and dot our eyes so carefully to reach that so called perfection
but the definition of perfection in most of our hearts put it perfectly: "Perfection is a disease of a nation"
one that we have all caught and seemed to not find a cure. it goes rapidly through our body spreading so fast and clenching on to the brain until it calls all the shots as if we are the robots and it is now the controller.
you see, there is nothing but insecurity.
you might be able to air brush the blemishes and bumps that creep into our skin and sprout so grossly, but,
you cant air brush personality.