I'm trying to focus these thoughts
and turn them into something brilliant
instead of the usual jokes I'm used to.
And its always the same punch line
all the time
with me.
I'm sick of laughing and choking and coming up with the same life I've always had.
My house will always be messy more than its clean
and my ideas will never be more than that;
ideas.
And it scares me to write that because I'm afraid if I do
it will never change.
People always like me.
But where does that get me?
Pay me for my personality.
I've never had a problem being the funny girl.
The pretty girl.
The girl with all the sunshine.
But all thats good for is free drinks and big tips.
I try to come off as an artist.
All I preach
art
art
art.
But I haven't painted anything lately but my nails
and all I've written is shitty poetry where I try to sound deep and original
instead of writing whats inside me.
Who cares if its good?
Are you trying to sell it?
And I need to find myself
but think if I start looking, I'll find nothing.
It got misplaced in the clutter of deaths
and winters
and boxes
and cities
and baby clothes.
I remember that night sitting with Grayson after work.
Talking aout how he was older and wiser then my 18 years
but not by much.
And he told me "I've never met anyone like you, kid.
I think you can be anything you want."
And I don't know why
but that meant something.
Maybe it was his name I fell in love with.
But now the only way I get inspiration is to smoke it.
So I pack it in
and light it up
and jot down whatever comes out, hoping its gold.
I feel like my heart is caged in my body by more than my ribs.
Beating.
Beating.
Beating.
Hoping someone hears it
and loves it
and makes me smile the kinds of smiles you see in the movies.
Because right now, its breaking.
knowing I let you down
and letting myself put red before green.
Now I'm faced with the realization that
all that stuff I love,
all that art,
is nothing on a resume.
And I'm just a waitress.
Doing the same thing since 15.
Thats all I've accomplished.
Served the world steak and warmed its coffee with my burning dreams.
And I'm funny
and pretty
and told I have sunshine.
But where does that get me?
So, come on.
Pay me for my personality
so I can go back to my breakfast.