The bird of my Happiness

Concrete, steel, and plastic pile up around us as we try to find some clean air.

I don’t know where I belong anymore, but neither do you.

Why is it when we have time to think we have no money?

The birds don’t give a fuck if you’re rich or you’re poor; they’ll shit on you either way.

Is that what’s going on in heaven? Are you shitting on us from up high?

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