Dresses and makeup,
this or that hairstyle,
salads and chocolates,
preparing for the night.
It's gonna be awesome,
that's all I know
love and lights
are gonna glow.

I dread 2nd and King to this day.

I was born into a poor family:
dad the drunkard,
mom the **** addict,
brother abusive,
and sister wrist slitter,
in '84.

Mealtime portions measly.
The house's fragmented windows,
chipping paint
and carpet, ash stained beyond cleaning,
forced me to attempt an escape
several times.
Its a wonder we had a house at all!
I was the only one who worked.

From 10:00 until 7:00
in the dead of winter I used to stand
in clothes so thin
I was better off not even wearing them.
In '97 I was too young to work
legally.
But I wasn't too young for the men-
and I admit, some attractive-
who would pull up to
2nd and King.
I just crawled in the backseat,
assumed the position,
and took my beating
for not being born to the right family,
class,
city,
house...
...... corner...
..................men...
...........................­..­....

I can't look at that sign
marking the corner
without thinking of
crotch after crotch
until it was etched in my brain
that the male genitalia
was the epiphany of evil.
I have to turn my head.

I dread 2nd and King to this day.

Dark brown eyes with bags under them telling the world she is tired; dark, long, glumly hair telling us she doesn't care anymore what her appearance looks like. A smile that goes side to side, from left to right showing her white teeth way too much. A big one in fact that could fool anyone, but i'm not anyone. It just leaves you wondering how had her days been going, since when she stopped caring, or did something happened lately that provoke such sadness in her. All she does since two or three weeks ago it's find a chance to shut the world down with her music. At the same time she makes you realize what strength it's all about; yes, she is broken, at the edge of tearing, but she is still standing solid, facing the world, and holding down all the punches life throws towards her. She is just that one girl in class.

Let us walk on these streets of gold,
with a Cadillac and Ferrari on the side,
no one dares to be as bold,
as those who show their money with pride.
Keep walking down the way,
until the ground turns gray,
here we find the place of life,
cut apart with a knife.
The attitudes are dim,
the people are looking slim,
for they must continue on,
working on a lawn until they are long gone.
For they visit the golden street,
not to live, but to weep,
as they work to eat,
payed with lies and deceit.
Do we notice?
Do we care?
As their children lie naked and bare.
Do we help them?
Do we feed them?
Or do we just send a prayer?