Script
A Poem/Song by Cheyenne Patterson
“No need to change your lines you’re perfect take your time.”
“You’re doing it just right”.
She’s heard this all her life.
A roller coaster ride to chapter number 9. It’s all in the script.
Leads to something wonderful: live the perfect life, be the perfect wife.
It’s all in the script. All you need and all you want. Look with your own eyes, see what’s stored inside the script.
She’s made a big old mess, mascara stains her dress. Her husbands drunk again, her daughters expecting.
To chapter number ten, the story never ends.
It’s all in the script.
Leads to something wonderful: live the perfect life, be the perfect wife.
It’s all in the script. All you need and all you want. Look with your own eyes, see what’s stored inside the script.
About the Creator
Cheyenne Patterson
My name is Cheyenne Patterson. I love to write stories and songs and I love to draw. I hope you all like my style of music, and I really appreciate the reads.
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More stories from Cheyenne Patterson and writers in Poets and other communities.
Cheyenne Patterson - 'Nobody Like You'
*Beat by Thomas Crager Beats* Another song I wrote, for my boyfriend. "Nobody Like You" Lyrics- Can't nobody treat me better than you can, got to say it twice because they don't understand, can't nobody treat me better than my man. Got to fix their eyes because clearly they don't see, you’re my ride or die, my love, my meant to be. And they must be blind because clearly they can't see. And I won't start looking boy because I don't want to find, ain't nobody like mine, ain't nobody like you 2x. Coming in my life just still seems kinda odd. Baby you're my angel sent to me from (him). And I'm glad you're mine because I like you a lot. And if a chick come with some stuff she just going to get it pop! pop! pop! Because I ain't got time for this! hey! And you better tell her that I'm not normal. And I won't start looking boy because I don't want to find, ain't nobody like mine, ain't nobody like you 2x
By Cheyenne Patterson6 years ago in Poets
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munsona day ago in Fiction
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