When I was five, I'd look up at the sky
to wish on the first star I saw every night.
My sister was never cured.
When I was eighteen, I used to ask,
Why do bad things happen to good people?
Now I find myself thinking,
Why do good things happen to bad people?
This isn't a half empty, half full thing,
because no matter what,
the glass is never complete.
Life is incomplete.
It's half-baked, medium-rare, half full and yet half empty.
It's shit and it treats us like such.
I want to rip apart my pillows and toss them in the air,
watch feathers fall gracefully under the heavy gravity of this defective world,
because that's how it must look whe