Proud
The same nasty job and the same decorations,
The desperate faces of helpless sweatpals,
Bright shouting ads at half-dead metro stations,
Then evenings with you in a dark empty cell.
The price of ten dollars for some inspiration,
Some spirits, some sex and a pointless nightmare,
Brain womittimg words for another creation,
The words squirting hatred and bleeding despair,
No money for life, but great plans and beginnings...
They hate me for pride and the truth brought them ripe.
I've chosen life with just one subtle meaning,
They've chosen one of a stereotype.
I say what is true and I live what is fair!
I laugh at those dull social-networking mugs
Who tell me: "Young thing, you're nothing in square",
The kids of myspaces and audiodrugs.
The lights in the streets take me back to November -
Complete isolation of heart, blood and mind.
The ones that I loved still forget to remember
A beautiful devil - the one of this kind.
The guise of my freedom has changed. Don't you care
That everything else has remained? It is me!
Alone in the crowd, both here and there,
And f---ing damn proud - more sober, more free.
Copyright © Ria April Avalon | Year Posted 2009
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