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She knows Los Angeles is a junkyard for young lives
as they sit curbside by the railroad tracks
sipping Mickey's (a.k.a. liquid asphalt)at 2:00 a.m.
She's no dumbtype but doesn't know what to say
when the men call her "guapa".
"Sucker" she says brazenly with a whiskey voice.
The Mexican Mafioso melt as they gaze.
She knows that beauty will save the world;
even these demon dogs,
on the dark side of the rainbow.
From the train,
you can see how L.A. is
a sprinkling of glitter
in an envelope of darkness.
I will die from the pain
of the containment of my creativity.
When will I escape the oppression of those
who would rather see me living in squalor
than see me soar to stardom?
Why should I maintain mediocrity
which is reccomended by RECOVERY
by supressing my Mensa mentality
so that I can avoid grandiosity
while your thumb becomes heavier
and I shink into meekness and humility?
I will attain my birthright/my destiny
not in some other century
when you say
step back, you loom too large
I must expand to scratch
out of poverty.