Pretty Face

Poetry

Is he good enough to grab your heart
or will he just grab your 
aspirations mean nothing to them
You’ve got a pretty face
You’re a pretty face
The times when it matters
you don’t
Time won’t be good to you, anyway
who cares who you are
who cares what you love
who cares that you care about anything

Those lovely eyes are a window
to an empty house
waiting to be filled by him
loved within
Smile for me, babe
Don’t let them see you waste away
Paint on the surface
girl, you deserve this
Doesn’t it feel so good

Yeah maybe he touched you
but you liked it like that
Cause you look like you do
and you dress a certain way
You asked for it
begged him to
Let’s let him get away
He promises to be so good
would you rob him of everything
Don’t cry
Don’t feel
Don’t show us that you are real

Is he good enough to grab your heart
or will he just grab your
aspirations mean nothing
Nothing is meant to be
If it’s meant to be
then it can’t be changed
it can’t be changed
it can’t be

What I’m Worth

Poetry

Worthy to be loved
Worthy to be seen
Worthy to bear the fruit
To stand in the shadows of kings
to bear the burdens of artist and ingenue
to hold the weight of the future in my womb

Unworthy to share machinations of thought
Unworthy to be heard
Unworthy to choose a path beyond the cultivated garden
where my mother was beaten to submission
where her light was stolen and smothered
where she did no greater good than the day she bore a son

One day you’ll be president
One day you’ll be Queen
One day the world will stand in awe of what you’ve done
A little lie because we don’t want them to know
a little lie to give some hope
a little lie because you’re worthy to be loved
but only in body
and even then
only for a while

A Held Breath

Poetry

We started off our ‘20s with a
Bang Bang Bang.
The only upside is that things can
only go up from here.
When you’re living rock bottom
the basement looks like a ceiling.
The glass is so pretty
the way the sunlight sparkles through;
we stand mesmerized like ants
as all hope burns away.
Those fantasies and dreams
were never built to last;
like straw houses standing alone
while we hold our breath–
the promises were broken before my first gasp,
and will stay that way
long after my last.
They call me an optimist;
I’m afraid they might be right.