The World Don't Owe You Pretty

Being grown-up finally means swallowing the fist of it:
the one you built cathedrals around in your head
looks at you once and decides you’re a gargoyle,
nothing worth climbing for. The coach didn’t hate you—he just saw the truth
everybody else pretended not to: you weren’t good enough,
not even close. Same as the suit behind the desk
who smiled while he said “we went another direction.”
Translation: you’re the wrong kind of dog for this fight.So here’s the deal, kid:
stop waiting for the beautiful lie to bend down and kiss you.
Get off your ass, grind the hours, take the shit jobs,
the ones that smell like yesterday’s sweat and broken promises.
Lower the bar on your dreams until it’s low enough
a real woman can step over it without tripping.
Find one who’s crooked in the same places you are,
who doesn’t flinch at the mirror or at your hands.
Take the paycheck that’s half what you think you deserve
and be grateful it buys beer and rent and a little silence.Happiness isn’t a blonde with perfect teeth
waiting at the end of some golden runway.
It’s a small, ugly room you learn not to hate,
a warm body that doesn’t ask for miracles,
and the slow, stubborn realization
that you’re still here, still breathing,
and that’s enough some nights. Buck up.
The world doesn’t owe you pretty.
But it’ll give you something if you stop begging
and start taking what’s left on the table.