Another day in paradise, they say
as the sun scorches hope off my back
and the clock laughs its slow, cruel laugh.
I'm supposed to be grateful.
Supposed to smile at the mess,
at the noise,
at the weight of pretending this is fine.

But I hate it here.
The way the air feels like a lie,
how the walls close in
even when I’m outside.
The way silence rings louder than traffic,
and company feels lonelier than being alone.

They dress it up with palm trees and promises,
but the ground still cracks beneath my feet.
And no matter how bright the sky looks,
I still wake up tired
still sleep with my fists clenched.

Another day in paradise, huh?
Then why does it feel like hell
with a better view?