Why is everything a cry for attention?
Why can’t a teenager have a problem,
A legitimate reason
To sit down
And cry?
Why can’t I wear all black
And just like the color?
I’m not slitting my wrists,
I’m not suicidal,
I’m happy.
Why can’t I listen to angry music
Because I appreciate the lyrics
And envy the musicians’ abilities?
Why can’t I write depressing poetry
Because I had a bad day,
Or because I think it effects people more
Than fake laughter
And empty sunsets
And meaningless smiles?
Why can’t I be me, and not have to answer
To teachers
To parents
To random people who think they know me?
You don’t know me.
I’m not looking for attention.
I’m being myself.