They call where I live “The Bubble”

“The Happy Valley”

because whatever problems we face

we hide behind photo shopped pictures

with filtered solutions.

Anyone who breaks the mold gets broken apart,

swept up in pieces,

and pushed under a rug that’s

bulging with broken souls and clipped wings.

I grew up on the right side of the tracks,

and all I’ve ever been expected to do

is what everybody else does.

No one tells me I’m going great places,

because when I tell them my dreams

they tell me the tracks don’t

go that far.

My feet are constantly being weighed down by the people

who don’t believe I can go anywhere.

After all, I’m just a girl living in a bubble,

on the right side of the tracks.

Inexperienced. Uncultured.

My shadows pull me to Paris and Rio and New York City

while the blank, identical faces around me shove pictures of

their 5 mile adventures in my face and expect

me to be jealous.

Truthfully, they are all happily content in the corner of

a black and white cell that I am desperately

trying to color in.

The reality of where I live has photo shopped the wings on my back

out of the picture.

And sometimes even I forget they’re there.

I make myself bruise and scar as I

try to squeeze into the same bottle as everyone else but

I Don’t Fit

I Don’t Want To Fit.

I may not know what will be there when the tracks end,

but when I find out…

I’m going to dust off my soul and

wash my hair in thunder and lightning and

I’ll probably fall in love with someone from

the other side of the tracks.

I’m going to take snapshots with my mind,

caption them with my memories, and

my heart will sing glory because

no filter could ever turn down

the corners of my mouth.