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Sunday, May 16, 2010

This Poem Doesn't Even Exist

Nobody tells me I'm pretty.
My hipsterish ways should act as the great wall that keeps this from effecting me.
Beauty is in everyone, everything.
It's just that the beauty of some is more critically acclaimed.
So why do I, as an underground gem, crave the standing of a Top 40 ho?

"My beauty comes in the form of shifty eyes bouncing up and down from my curls to my ankles, shy glances, static stares, greetings and goodbyes;
only observed, never possessed by anyone but me.
My beauty? It's the truth! It doesn't sell-out," she said
as the True Religion jean wearing stranger whistled at her, the tune of her youth, in his laceless shoes.
"Ayo ma, psssssst pssssssssst...that chip on your shoulder sure looks like it tastes good," he said
striking me with the fear that my closet beliefs, backyard desires, and situational ideologies wouldn't hold up with a knife at my neck and a gun to my head,
as i write these words in black ink on black paper in this pitch black room. This poem doesn't even exist.

"My beauty is sneaky and ruthless, covert and quiet. It doesn't glow in the dark!"


Katherine said...


KayHop said...

Thanks so much!

Michelle said...

damn girl, i effin love it!

KayHop said...

Thanks Michelle!