Demise of a Drama Queen
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*
Copyright © Synonym Thesaurus | Year Posted 2009
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