I’ve been trying to write for a while now
but no one is letting me write like me:
a goddamn happy girl who is perpetually sad,
a bumbling idiot who kisses hot boys
and tells nerds we’re just friends.
Fuck me, I spend twenty bucks on mascara,
fifty on booze, and ten on groceries.
Fuck you, I’m shallow, self-centered, stupid and stwenty.
But a poet is deep and meaningful and concerned and introverted and fucking old.
So I write this filled with emotions I’ll erase with a blunt and a boy
A blunt boy.
He’ll pick up my moleskin, flip through and laugh:
“You write poems?”