A woman, two hands, four kids in tow like a Netflix thriller,
Road after road, déjà vu in the rear-view,
Strong as granite, but damn, she’s still runway-ready,
Waking up to chaos, eyes heavy with sleepless nights,
School’s a monster, deadlines biting at her heels,
But she smiles, because what else can she do?
This isn’t a glass of wine – it’s a marathon,
Wisdom’s path, raw and relentless,
And at night, she laughs,
“That’s life, love the tank top.”
Fridays are like poker chips in this bar where numbers and lives collide. Rich men and
hustlers meet in a slow-burn blues, and I’m scribbling poems between equations and grease
stains. Time stretches, stuck in slow motion, but midnight hits and the place wakes up. I’m
done with it. I’m just another number in a broken equation, another player searching for
meaning in the noise.
There are no guarantees, but that’s the plan.
Every morning, I feel uncertain,
Every step seems to lead me astray,
Every day is a new equation,
A lifetime warranty seems unlikely,
Guarantees disappear like smoke from a late-night cigarette,
And I’m left exposed, like Thursday without croissants.
Tomorrow’s a mystery, today’s a mess,
Life’s a magic trick without the rabbit,
Another Amazon box I didn’t order,
But I’ll open it anyway.
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