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Poems
Stripped Book
Upon our first meeting,
you think you somehow know
who I am.
You see the details,
you see the whole,
and somehow you think
that makes you an expert
on what it?s like
to be me.
You think because I wear
silver jewelry
in ancient symbols
I must be
a worshipper of
Hellish devils.
You think because I wear
a black leather jacket
I must be a rough-and-tumble lawbreaker
with a gun
in my pocket
You think because I wear
purple in my hair
I must be immature
and stuck in my teens
and not to be
taken seriously.
You think because I wear black
there must be Marilyn Manson
music coming from my
blacklighted bedroom
filled with marijuana smoke
and pictures of the dead.
If only you knew how wrong you are.
But why do I care how wrong you are?
Why do I care when you
spit out your obscenities,
when you throw out your
juvenile one-liners,
when you judge me,
condemn me,
or write me off
as a passing,
insignificant phase?
Why do I care when you
show your
immaturity by insulting me
with base words and
tired clichés?
Why do I hold out
such misplaced hope
that you and I
could look past our differences
and complement each other
rather than competing
for who is ?right??
Why do I wish we could be friends?
Back to Writing: Poetry: Poems
