I don’t belong to you too. Days and hours go by and I’m only getting older. Rushing to the next phase of my life seems like I’m only saying goodbyes. But let the dead rest in peace. My body gyrates to the soul of my own beat, chasing destiny like an only child. Let’s make it. Even if we have to fake it first.
Isn’t success the barometer to measure if our lives are truly worth living. Having reality tv watch me won’t nab me a Pulitzer. Oh, summer loving and humping in hip huggers to hip hop beats on the backstreets of Southeast DC.
Progress is a path tucked between my thighs like two stolen apple pies. Now, that’s what I call a Happy Meal—a soft box next to a hard cock. Suck, fuck then pop a squat in white socks.
I’m living dangerously, masturbating to this masterpiece in motion. My Super Soul Sunday marathon has me questioning my choices by listening to voices. But the ghosts of my past won’t ruin my future.
I’m gaining weight and feeling guilty by stuffing my body with seafood like seamen. Fuck those demons for chasing away my sobriety.
Clogging my nose with coke no longer gets me high. Drinking until I pass out is no longer feasible over thirty.
Let’s get this pity party started. This diva on a dime rocking an Hermes watch with my boyfriend’s flip flops. I’m not giving a fuck about what other think of me.
Marrying myself protects my self-esteem. I’m the only person able to put up with me. Then take me to Paris. And I don’t plan to die when I get there.
Terrorism is causing chaos in my favorite city. One day I’ll make it to the Eiffel Tower. Gobble up glasses of wine until I’m fine. I’ll be my own personal private dancer. Handsome and hungry, dancing to French music like in Moulin Rouge.
I’ll let you pull down my Spanx and spank me until my cheeks turn red.
Then I’ll let you screw me to the backdrop of the Louvre. Climax while you’re on top of me. Don’t you want to take me to Paris?
I guess today the closest I’m getting to France is in a bottle Bordeaux.