There’s a myriad of ways to phrase it.
I’ve been told that if I can’t stand the heat
I should exit the kitchen-
But it’s the only room in my world
And it’s on fire,
Where the circumstances are always dire,
I’ve prayed that the smoke of the flames may lift me up higher
But I never could seem to escape the safest and only room
In my house.

Winston once said:
“Success is not final- failure is not fatal-”
Yet the both of them tied me up in knots,
Fun is not s’posed to be painful
Yet the both of them placed me in a blender,
And I’d become shredded to embers before
Recognized for being unique
Creativity is a gift-turned curse.

And the phrase:
“It could always be worse”
Never suited me for a second
Because the second I stretched to touch or at least
“Reach for the stars”
A force would come to cut my fingers off
As The Strangers scoff
How could it be worse?
And the stars and I grew farther apart-
An old friend once said “the world must change it’s heart”
But I worry that would never change for me and the other writers
With our fingers cut clean-
While the stars glow brighter than a Dreamer’s ever seen.

I’d opted to a phrase that bandaged my fingers
Years ago, searching endlessly for answers
To and fro but
My life- I mean one Hell of a kitchen
Is nothing but blood and of pain and of stiches
Inside this home-turned-prison
What a grim thing to say,
Though it’s kept me alive to this day:

“Kill yourself, or get over it.”