and she writes the type of poetry
that is never really beautiful
just raw and painful and real
till she sugarcoats it with
pretty words and clever rhymes

like the chipped paint covering all
the heartbroken angry graffiti
tattooed in sharpie on every bathroom stall
from the broken glamour girls of Manhattan
to the small town girls with shattered vodka dreams

and everyone who reads it pretends to be so deep
pretend like they know exactly what she says
when she writes her words, but
they can listen to as many fallout boy songs as they want
and read all the original, the never been seen before
quotes and poems and icons they can get their
nail polished oversize ring covered hands on
they will never understand a word until
they live.it.themselves

they never stop to ask what's wrong
what's going in her life to make her scream
out, bleed out these words onto paper
("oh, she's just making up riddles and mixing them
with lies. all she wants is attention"
--but honey these words aren't as deep as you
want to pretend they are, if you don't understand
then she never wanted you to.)

and the pages that she writes these words on
give her paper cuts on ink stained fingers
when her razor sharp thoughts
lash out at her from the lined pages

she never claims to be original, she never aims
for her words to be heartbreaking, groundbreaking
and she never said she wasn't a hypocrite
she's finally telling the truth for once,
but you aren't listening
(you.aren't.listening)