I was told my dream was dead.
Fed to a society
that has holes in its head.
What I chose
(creative writing),
was a lemon.
I could squeeze until
every ounce of pulp fell into those holes,
and all that the acidity would do was make them itch.
To get my way, it would be one hell of a ditch.
Forced to navigate with zero support.
Family values are vacant in the fort.
They left me to wander,
lobotomized from head to toe,
in a world full of fakes.
To my face, they’ll tell me:
I’ll read your work,
but as soon as I’m gone,
it’s back to the forgetful jerk.
To them, I’ll always be a passing piece of patchwork.
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