Watching the world turn through a series of paint-marker windows,
Of barely square houses, not homes,
Drawn poorly and hung on the fridges of week-to-week mothers,
With cashed checks strewn on the street, and fathers, all fucking deadbeat,
Why do they always pack up and leave?
Moments, passing in front of me.
Houses all full of unspoken dreams, living for week-
Ends, to a means.
Starlight to streetlights
Life passing in front of me.
I mean, we’re all trying to leave. Aren’t we?
All trying to save – just enough to be free- ourselves.
Life’s just unfair. It’s bittersweet.
They all fucking swear and Complain after work but they never quit,
The whole worlds against me.
Are they dreams they tuck under the pillow? or is it a will to live?
A happy illusion, a sweet day-dreaming delusion,
Just as real as the finger-painted masterpieces that they’ll throw in the bins.

I’m scared I’ll be crumpled,
Litter to feed to the streets,
Too busy watching from Crayola windows,
That I’ll forget to just be.