That's Not Blood, It's Ketchup

Eyes up, sweetie

Framed in spontaneity

Throw on that big smile

One your own mother don't see

Dunk it in that old Southern charm

                                      "How are y'all today..."

Dull eyes stare past unwavering fervor

Just apathetic enough to sting

You're a servant

Uneducated slum, no good at nothin'

They curse, they holler. Insinuate.

                                        "Can I get you anything else, ma'am..."

Sugar coat that greasy slop

Upsale, upgrade, bring on the mob

Hide behind a cigarette when its done

Holes in your shoes and belly

As you kiss those designer jeans

                                         "I'm sorry for the mistake, sir..."

Smear powder on those baggy circles

Cream on all the grease burns

Hands of eighty by twenty

Once well manicured

Paint your face, squeeze into the push up

                                           "Why, thank you so much..."

This can't be all

Dreams beyond this hole

Swore up and down this wouldn't happen

But years come quickly, hopes set aside

Lose everything, try again

                                           "I should be graduating..."

Want to have a purpose

Beyond fryers and customer service

I could be anything they said

Instead I hide my brains

Beneath a labeled hat

                                         "Oh, and would you like fries with that?"







Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741