Left Hungry.

Judging the world by its inequalities
Poverty always to be poor
Third world hate.
Darker Skin, Darker eyes
This world now,
darken my soul.
Remembered for what we have not,
taken from what once was
Beaten
Broken
Berated
Two worlds know not what,
what they have done to me.

Testing Me.

Cards placed in front of me.
Each one different or so says the eyes
I see them screaming,
I see them as animals
I see them as hungry
I'll see them as you like.
So tell me the answer,
my response will match all the same
Tell me what you wish to hear,
my words will be nothing less.
Cards placed in front of me, as if a test
Their patterns, their pictures, their stories
all nothing more than a game of deception
So what is to become of me and this rorschach test?

Water under the bridge

There's a bridge in Brooklyn. Stretched out, she waits.

One by one, she is passed by.

no attention is given

And there she is left,

just holding up the world

upon these metal shreds.

And why does she still wait?

Untitled Madness

Another pill from the bottle. A quick fix, an easy solution.
Pop one, pop two, now at three.
Repeat for tomorrow.
Another shot from a bottle.
one tablespoon after the other.
Downing the pain with an one to one ratio.
Do not mix with alcohol the label reads. Directions of course that must be followed.
Now all a blur, the bright light, the stars, the moon, the sun, the same.
A word, a name, a call, the same.

Who's the fairest of them all

The mirror on the wall reflects the world as it sees it.
"I am silver and exact"
No gimmicks, no lies, just the harsh cold truth.
"Unmisted by love or dislike"
The mirror tells me nothing more than that what I already now. Unfaltering from truth, I wish to look away.
Somewhere softer, where these words can no longer see.
The moon casting a darkness, granting me a shadow, a moment, a brief second of sanity.
Where the image wasn't real, but virtual.
Then reality hits, drowned in this vanity

Sing Sweet Nightingale

A word, a thought, a sentence; all visible to no one, and not even known by me. There's nothing left, not one ounce of sincerity. Everything now, fake, made-up, an act. Playing a game of dress-up, locked in my own perception of what this storybook should be. Left on my hands and knees, singing as if I were the caged bird.
I just want out, even if only until the clock strikes twelve.
The glass has broken, no proof is left, the caged bird goes back to singing.

Grand Opening

An obscenely large pair of glimmering scissors are taken to a ribbon. One snip and the ribbon falls, unleashing whatever false anticipation was wafting through the air.
The secret is out.
The game is over.