A stranger to the bitter truth ought not lend
his tongue, for even that is borrowed
as the sun rises overhead stealing hours
from the moon like pecks on a blushing cheek.
We are no more kept together here than
anywhere, yet we hold our hands
outstretched waiting for someone to
fill us up with hard candy and quarters.
A bit of whisky for the whistle and you fall
back into the footsteps of your parents.
Carrying not your weight on the world,
But the weight of the world on your shoulders.
It is not the job of anyone else to make you
believe in yourself again.