YOU. Yes you. Your mouth, drawn up in the mirror like the smug little b**** that you are. Oh, I know they all admire you.  Your “creativity” and “wisdom”. The ability to paint doesn’t make you an artist and slipping $50 SAT vocabulary into every pre thought-out monologue that spews from your worthless mouth doesn’t guarantee wisdom. Oh, they love you. They worship your “unique” style.  Your Urban Outfitters façade somehow implies originality to their biased minds.  You used to be authentic. Your ideas were your own; your clothes were your own. But when you realized that you fit into that sub category of teenage angst, forged from fascist textiles and churned out by corporate hands, you couldn’t wait to leave your authenticity behind. You traded your soul for a guise of originality because you couldn’t handle your own flaws. You had to commandeer someone else’s.
You wonder why you crave to destroy your flesh with gritty razor blades. You wonder why you think society is a constant, consumerism-run seminar. You hide from your own brand labels.  Your phoniness. Your inability to even tolerate yourself because you know that you are an utter sell-out. You think that you are special because you can put paint on a canvas and crank out a few poems on a good day? You think that this validates you as person? Your ability to follow a sickeningly counterfeit idealism that makes you believe you are something more than same decomposable material as everyone else? But I see the truth. You are angry. You are destructive. You are Incompetent. You are afraid. And I despise you.