an underdog, or a nobody?

Note: Meant to be read quickly, or with a tone of urgency.

the words i write aren't brave,
but slaves to a mind that screams
its language every second of every day
it says, hey, babe, here's a car, here's a star
wouldn't you like to see one? wouldn't you like to
be one?

my tongue is slung across my mouth
like a whore, in the back of the store,
buying time before it's night because it's cold
outside. the snow, a broken pinky-toe, the bruises
left under a dress and the fact that i haven't slept
for days. i broke in a farm and did myself harm, then
slept in hay. what a day.

i'm either an underdog or a nobody.
they tell me to lunge towards the notebook,
and pick up a pen like i'm a hen, laying eggs,
being appraised, you're doing jack shit for society
but baking its cakes, supporting its breakfast, and,
you know, holding the world up by its shoulders.
but a hen isn't jack shit when there's big ben,
a bank giving out lends, a lens, magnifying
the bigger corporations and minimizing the
workers who keep their animals warm and
snore during the night, because their
lives aren't right.

they ignore the flaws
because their wives make coleslaw
and they dreamed of being happy
but settled for mediocre.