You stroke my hair
and tell me of vulnerabilities and we share
the within, outside the very next day you cut me up to all your friends.
Churches with front doors wide open in blinding brightness leads
to the back door shrouded in despair, through it, victims leave unseen
Momma government takes care of me when I’m in need or so it seems
but when I call on you, I’m forced to run the gulag to get the aid you promised me
Cover your scars your wrinkles and even cellulite
You are what you are even in broad daylight
I am pained, flawed and mentally unsure but with a sense of mirth
What are you? pomp and circumstance or true! What’s it worth?