Thursday, June 14, 2012
Try so hard to be someone
then you forget what you've become.
Your day job is a constant frown,
your diadem, a leaded crown.
You strut the streets with oppulence,
yet are not paid your recompense.
You lie, you cheat just to get by;
alone, you're broken, and you cry.
The world's a stage, but not for you.
You cannot ignore what is true:
you're a filthy, broken destitute,
at best, a mental prostitute.
Why wither, when you can regain
the treasure that you still disdain?