what solace there must be in being young, thin, and beautiful! in clean clothes and open roads; with the breeze in your hair and life without care. poor, ugly, and pudgy; i only look forward to an end to this hurt and the sound of a shovel filling my nostrils with dirt.
“washed up on a cold creek bank” the words, they scathe, the critics are frank face the crowd not there to thank an illusory vision of a life that sank the shore is a set, the creek is a tank
i am just a pill you swallow in a lonely bottle i wait and wallow my capsule body halved and hollow chased with the tears that always follow