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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required You always aspired to the distinguished air That tends to attend the depths of despair, Strove to emanate the sophistication You associate will suicidal tendencies Wallow in an elegant depression, A pretty little picture perfect portrait Of a contemporary damsel in distress The world is your stage And the stage is your world In the mirror you’d oft rehearse That tormented temptress look you wear so well What’s your secret? Teach us your tricks! I hear it’s all in the eyes Many’s the time that late into the night You’d steal a bottle from the kitchen And a fancy champagne flute From your mother’s pretentious display cabinet in the hall That J2O sure packs a punch! Play pretend it’s vodka or vino, Arsenic if the mood takes you Mixes well with the H2O You’re squeezing from your eyes Listen to Joni and Leonard on an evening, You heard it’s supposed to be deep, Nod knowingly and sing along To the lyrics you secretly can’t comprehend Turn to the bible in search of the good word Or a good story Or a good laugh Might as well still be in Latin For all you understand Can’t quite decide If you’re seeking something to believe in; Your trumpets and cherubim moment Or just something to snort at derisively, Unleash the sting of your oh so biting cynicism Well aren’t you quite the seasoned critic! In an expensive notebook You pen the most profound and poignant ponderings Of your suffering soul, Reads like a Shakespearian tragedy Or a Jane Austen novel, You favour words such as ‘thee’ and ‘thou’, (‘thine’ is your favourite) And occasionally refer to yourself in the third person You burn with self righteous indignation Regarding those who fail to sympathise With the teenage condition, Adoring the sensation of artificial heat Coursing through your core, Through your sacred unseen centre, Through the fibres of your very being! These are the memories I hold of you Looking back, I have often thought it strange, That the day your Prince Charming Took his chariot for a run in the rain And spilt himself across the dashboard And the radio and the seats Was the day your tear ducts dried up And the thespian inside you Slit its wrists for real. *Just thought I’d clarify I’m talking about the death of her desire for drama and losing her tendency to romanticize grief, rather than her literally committing suicide*
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