You Think I'm Weird

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You think I’m weird. I am. You think I’m simply psychotic. Did I ever say differently? It’s just the fact you don’t except it that really gets to me.

I’m that girl with the glasses sitting in the corner with the purse with the studs and the jacket on the chair.
I’m the girl with her mouth pressed into her palm, leaning on her elbow with a ring pierced in her ear.
I’m the girl with eyes only lit with the glare of her laptop who prefers the pale screen over the bright shine of the sun.
I’m the girl who sits reading in the café, being stared at by the boy with his mom who’s still in his cleats.
I’m the girl with the chopped-up hair who checks out so many books even the librarians stop and stare.
I’m the girl who wears gray sweaters even though you buy her red, and her cell-phone is always set to vibrate.
I’m the girl in the scarf and the scrappy brownish jacket that contains a wallet which is virtually bare.
I’m that girl who sings softly as she walks through the books where she feels as if she is almost where she wants.
I’m the girl who writes late into the early hours just because she wants to feel as if she actually belongs.
You’re the mother that has told her of the fashions and patted on the make-up which I used to adore.
You’re the mother with a punk living in your home when all you really wanted was a princess to adore.
You’re the mother with the writer who slouches in her seat and eats in the room where no else comes in.
You’re the mother who loves her even though it’s hard, that goes through the denial of a not-so-perfect child.
You’re the mother who tries to listen, but finds that she can’t, and ends up talking about things I can’t expect to stand.
You’re the mother who finds pleasure when you shop for your fashions, even though your daughter would rather spend her time in the Barnes&Noble finding books.
We’re the pair of Mother/Daughter where everything goes wrong, where the fashions are a battle and the books take too long.
We’re the duo of caped crusaders who war-it-out all day, yet it’s only when we retreat and cry we hear what we really say.
We’re the twosome of sad people that try to clear their sight, but lucky us it’s not too seldom things actually turn out right.
A toast to our differences, may we always end our fights.





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Ilikepoetry said...
Oct. 20, 2009 at 7:13 am
Oh. My. God. This is one of the best poems ever. Especially since it's a lot like my realationship with my mom.
 
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