Minimum WageCleaning dishesfor minimum wageat the 24-hour diner(Breakfast anytime!)Picking upwhat people left behind--A steak here,a cake thereYour dinner ishis unfinished lunch.It's hard to havea good mealon five-fiftyan hour.
LuckyLucky youAnd your happy lifeYou never worryYou don't have toIt's all given to youLuckyLucky it is indeedTo be born richNever have to workA day in your lifeLucky boyIn your expensive carAnd expensive shoesWith your designer suitMade in ItalyLucky youYou're worth a millionBut a millionWill never be worth youAren't you lucky?Lucky manYou make me laughYour pretty faceIs just a maskI can see right through youLucky youAnd your false crisesNow you see thatLiving easy can be hardIf you're lucky
A Flat and Faded MomentThings seem so tangibleIn a photographYet they are no more than lightCaptured in a momentAnd chemically transformedInto an imageA picture of a person, place, thingCompacted into two dimensionsAn opposite of realityA silent still reflectionOf history
Life from Behind the LensI see the worldFrom a different perspectiveThrough a lensReflected in the negativesI get the pictureWhen the shutter closesCapture the moment foreverBefore time takes it awayI make this artBeautiful pieces of lifePieces of past emotionsViewed from an odd angleIt's not as goodNot as glamorous as it seemsI always take the picturesBut I'm never in the frame
AnarchyHypocrisy is mistaken forwisdom. Murder is answer toanger. Rioting mobs policethe streets. Flame engulfed buildings arethe source of lighting. Gunsreplace books in children's hands. Religion isreason for madness. Time has slowedand withered. Nothingis left, save the war tornvictims of a madman's regime.
Come CleanI stand here at the sink and try to scrub the filth from my hands. I rub the cloth into my hands over and over again until the skin is raw and red. It's still there. I want it to go away, the dirt, the stench, but it only dries up the flesh and makes it cracked and ugly. I try and try to scrape away the stains until I bleed. But the blood doesn't make it disappear. It mingles with the grime until my hands turn black and I look at them and they're not mine. They don't belong to me. I'm not that foul. I am pure, I am clean. This is somebody else's dirt, this is somebody else's problem. Don't make me clean in the crevices and chafe my pure white flesh until it's pink and burned. Don't make me wipe the mud from someone else's hands. I am too busy with the dirt beneath my feet.