many people think that neon lights are associated with places that give cheap, dark thrills.
i find them beautiful, and these places will see more true stories than your perfect suburban neighborhood.
a stripper may just be a girl driven to work at this “dirty joint” because she wanted to fund her little sisters education, and no other place would take a youthful gal that didn’t score decently on her math tests a couple times. she’s seen rejection so many times that this seemed like the only fit. her profession may involve men leering at her through hours of the night, and sometimes during the day, if little holly needed extra green for her textbooks, or for that field trip to DC or a pair of new soccer cleats for her regional game.
even with her blood shot eyes from the little rest she gets, you can count on it that she will be at her sister’s game, prouder than any other parent there, and certainly those that were so busy working their cushy jobs, that they couldn’t carve time out on a weekend to catch their child in their element because “mommy has to go out for brunch today” or “it’s just networking honey, you’ll understand one day”.
and that is why i find neon lights beautiful. they may host the rejects, and the ones who could not make it in our great, big world. maybe it is their refuge, their escape from the madness, and it is outstanding.
the people with full sleeve tattoos are more than likely to have the best stories
but you pull your young daughters and sons away, whispering to them that “the lady with the drawings all over her body is a bad person”. you are wrong. a person that passionate about something to have it permanently etched in her skin has seen wider horizons and will probably have a bad day, or week, or month even, seeing your disapproving frown as you usher young timothy far away, speaking in hushed tones. what good does it do? to paint your children a picture that the young, beautiful woman is unkind? you could not be more wrong.
and you see that elderly “creepy” gentleman sitting on the park bench?
he’s gone through the world war and has seen and heard so much and will probably know a little more about life than you. he has beautiful words and opinions to share yet you just dismiss him as another aged crazy man , laughing to your friends that you would “rather die than end up an old windbag on the streets" he could or could not have been sitting at the same spot that he met his first love, a time when things were less complicated, and they would actually have to make conversation, instead of just punching in a few keys into a small, bright square. "i <3 u" you say, he writes long letters to her from the camp, words that would make even the toughest sergeants shed a tear, and anxiously awaits her response every single time. your foolish jokes may have gotten a laugh or a chuckle from one of your friends, but they are nothing compared to the depths of this mans mind and heart.
think twice before you make a passing comment. your words could be shaping the minds of your young child’s impressionable mind, inflicting pain onto the lovely person you’re mocking, cause your chums thoughts to warp into an empty shell that you are. never think you are unable to learn something from someone, there is always something interesting they may share, and who knows? if you listened for once, you could pick up a thing or two about being human.
"You’re just a mess", he said. Or at least that is what I heard. After years of the same shit, every line seem to be no different from the previous time.
I bite my tongue to hold back the choking sounds my throat was making, and I lower my head and let the strands of hair fall across my forehead, covering my eyes. Hopefully they don’t see the glisten in my eyes. I try to act like i’ve got my shit together but I don’t. Maybe they’re right. I am a mess.
My early mornings consist of freezing cold buses and cigarette smoke
They overpower my thoughts and i can’t seem to think straight
I have so much to get off of my chest, but I don’t have an ocean to yell it out to. So i write
And all I do is stay in my room, reading words from dead men to run away to a different time, a different world, because my own is so cruel
you see your flaws in a mirror;
from whispers among a crowd
from stupid comments made on an irrelevant social site
and you try and try to change who you are
you try to escape to
a smoky world within cigarettes
a blurred world within the expensive liquor from your father’s cabinet
a colored world with your older sisters’ rouge
can’t you see? now you have overdone it
there is nothing left of you
but an empty shell
don’t you see? where you think your flaws lie, a beautiful creature does too