deepundergroundpoetry.com
Sellout
You are a sellout.
Yes, you.
I am talking to you.
With the dark make-up.
And the expensive punk clothes.
With the dyed hair you're going to change again with five seconds.
You holding a bottle of allergy pills, threatening to kill yourself.
Yes you.
The one that cut herself and I cried for because I thought you needed help.
I kept it a secret from your brother, my boyfriend.
How does it feel to get whatever you want so easily?
Your brother wanted to talk to both of your parents and you wanted to kill yourself.
"Sorry Andrew, we have to go home and make sure she doesn't do anything."
Do you know that your mother was calm and bored when you called?
Do you know that she's given up on you?
Not because she's on meds herself.
Because you're insufferable and so she gave up on you.
Your parents are giving up on you.
They don't care if you pass school.
Or have ambition for anything.
Or have sex.
Or do drugs.
Or dress like a slut.
Because you're just trying to get attention.
That what your mom told my mom and my mom told me and your brother.
Do you know what it's like to really care about something?
To really try and fail at something?
To really be alone?
To really feel depressed?
To really be ashamed of the scars on your wrists?
Do you?
Or are you just guessing.
I felt bad for you.
When you confided in me about you problems.
But you're just like the last one, the last compulsive liar I came in contact with.
I'll never get away from you people.
You're everywhere, feeding on my sympathy and than making me hate you in the end.
I hate you.
You're not broken.
You're not hurting.
Next time you pull a game like that again, I'm calling 9-1-1 and putting you away in the nuthouse maybe that'll teach you a lesson.
I hope you get arrested for doing weed, your straight-edge hipster.
I hope you get pregnant, because you know you said you'll have sex before you graduate but if you get pregnant you'll get rid of it because you'll never be able to handle a kid.
Do you know how insensitive you are, you told me that when I was pregnant with my son!
I hate you.
You're not going to find love because you're too picky.
You're not going to find love because you don't know when to just stop.
Stop talking.
Stop doing.
Let someone else do something for you for once, instead of demanding it.
Instead of having to go everywhere and do everything and now everything you don't anything about.
If you knew anything you would be failing your freshman year of high school.
If you were smart as you brag that you are, you'd know how to do something.
You write poems about things that have never happened to you.
You like everything because your friends like it.
And than you act like you know everything about music.
Guess what I listened to P!nk last year.
I listened to A Day To Remember and NeverShoutNever when I was a junior, I nineteen now.
While you listening to your gay emo screamo awkward bands, I was listening to the music that really did save me life.
You don't know what it's like to love someone that doesn't notice you and have someone say that they felt the same way.
You don't know what it's like to be alone and be abuse and have music be your only hope in the world.
You don't know what that's like.
Because you're pathetic and a liar.
And you're a sellout.
You sold your heart and soul to be like everyone else but than claim you're an individual.
You are not allowed in this house anymore.
And when you dress gothic again, know that you are a poser.
You are not anything, except a poser.
You think somethings cool and that's when you like it.
Since I have met you have considered yourself a. . .
Punk/rocker.
Hipster.
Video game nerd.
Part of a band.
Nerd.
Gay Pride enthusiast.
Gothic.
And now you're somewhere between punk-slut and emo-slut, or possibly a punk-emo-gothic slut wannabe.
And now that I've gotten that off my chest.
I feel better.
Bye.
Yes, you.
I am talking to you.
With the dark make-up.
And the expensive punk clothes.
With the dyed hair you're going to change again with five seconds.
You holding a bottle of allergy pills, threatening to kill yourself.
Yes you.
The one that cut herself and I cried for because I thought you needed help.
I kept it a secret from your brother, my boyfriend.
How does it feel to get whatever you want so easily?
Your brother wanted to talk to both of your parents and you wanted to kill yourself.
"Sorry Andrew, we have to go home and make sure she doesn't do anything."
Do you know that your mother was calm and bored when you called?
Do you know that she's given up on you?
Not because she's on meds herself.
Because you're insufferable and so she gave up on you.
Your parents are giving up on you.
They don't care if you pass school.
Or have ambition for anything.
Or have sex.
Or do drugs.
Or dress like a slut.
Because you're just trying to get attention.
That what your mom told my mom and my mom told me and your brother.
Do you know what it's like to really care about something?
To really try and fail at something?
To really be alone?
To really feel depressed?
To really be ashamed of the scars on your wrists?
Do you?
Or are you just guessing.
I felt bad for you.
When you confided in me about you problems.
But you're just like the last one, the last compulsive liar I came in contact with.
I'll never get away from you people.
You're everywhere, feeding on my sympathy and than making me hate you in the end.
I hate you.
You're not broken.
You're not hurting.
Next time you pull a game like that again, I'm calling 9-1-1 and putting you away in the nuthouse maybe that'll teach you a lesson.
I hope you get arrested for doing weed, your straight-edge hipster.
I hope you get pregnant, because you know you said you'll have sex before you graduate but if you get pregnant you'll get rid of it because you'll never be able to handle a kid.
Do you know how insensitive you are, you told me that when I was pregnant with my son!
I hate you.
You're not going to find love because you're too picky.
You're not going to find love because you don't know when to just stop.
Stop talking.
Stop doing.
Let someone else do something for you for once, instead of demanding it.
Instead of having to go everywhere and do everything and now everything you don't anything about.
If you knew anything you would be failing your freshman year of high school.
If you were smart as you brag that you are, you'd know how to do something.
You write poems about things that have never happened to you.
You like everything because your friends like it.
And than you act like you know everything about music.
Guess what I listened to P!nk last year.
I listened to A Day To Remember and NeverShoutNever when I was a junior, I nineteen now.
While you listening to your gay emo screamo awkward bands, I was listening to the music that really did save me life.
You don't know what it's like to love someone that doesn't notice you and have someone say that they felt the same way.
You don't know what it's like to be alone and be abuse and have music be your only hope in the world.
You don't know what that's like.
Because you're pathetic and a liar.
And you're a sellout.
You sold your heart and soul to be like everyone else but than claim you're an individual.
You are not allowed in this house anymore.
And when you dress gothic again, know that you are a poser.
You are not anything, except a poser.
You think somethings cool and that's when you like it.
Since I have met you have considered yourself a. . .
Punk/rocker.
Hipster.
Video game nerd.
Part of a band.
Nerd.
Gay Pride enthusiast.
Gothic.
And now you're somewhere between punk-slut and emo-slut, or possibly a punk-emo-gothic slut wannabe.
And now that I've gotten that off my chest.
I feel better.
Bye.
Published 27th May 2013
| Edited 3rd Jun 2013
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