I'm soul-less; dirty. Feel like shit. I dropp down- spread em'- feel my clit.
Lay me. Pay me. Now, get out. I cut. I joke.. so I won't shout my twisted thoughts and endless shame. This is what's called the survival game. See through the manipulation; control your frustration, and recognize you're here for guys to pay your bills, so compromise. It's not as hard if you close your eyes.
I know I'm winning when I have my son, and he's fed, and he's clothed and we're having fun. This life is only temporary, for survival is what I choose. So if I'm starving and homeless, and incapable of caring for my son- then this fucked up game I lose.
Lord, save me.
Stacy Collinsworth
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/survival-game/
